


The Warden

by Afrokot



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Dragon Age Kink Meme, F/M, NaNoWriMo'15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-05-12 14:09:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5668798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Afrokot/pseuds/Afrokot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How to deal with the Blight when you are the last Grey Warden left in Ferelden?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a [kink-meme prompt](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/11571.html?thread=59825459#t59825459):  
>  _So the way Duncan convinces some of the Origins to come with him is skeevy to say the least._    
>  _And it's not like they swear a binding oath to go become a Warden. And there's a whoooooole lot of distance between some of the places and Ostagar._  
>  _So what happens when one of the Origins, doesn't matter exactly which one, decides 'nope, screw this guy, I have more important things to be doing' and goes off to find someone/kill someone/whatever._
> 
> Edited 10/19/16

Natia stared across the campfire at the human that took her away from Orzammar. Not that it was much of a home, to begin with, but she had to leave her sister and mother there. Of course, joining Grey Wardens was a better perspective than either a quick death or a slow one — after all, no one exiled to the Deep Roads survived long — but didn’t it also spell death at the end? She had seen more than her fair share of Grey Wardens, seasoned warriors with grim faces, marching into the Roads never to be seen or heard of again. Despite the lack of formal education — _ha!_ — Natia wasn’t stupid and could do the math just fine. So Duncan’s offer, if she could even call it that, was also a death sentence taking place in the same ol’ Deep Roads. Fabulous.

The human stirred, and she held her breath, but a moment later he calmed down, his forehead smoothing. Earlier that evening, he said that tomorrow they would take a boat across Lake Calenhad to Redcliffe. Well then. It was prime time to part ways. Like void was she throwing her life away when she had a chance to start over.

Silent as a mouse, Natia Brosca shouldered her backpack and slipped into the night, leaving sleeping Duncan behind. His purse — a pleasantly heavy weight in her pocket.

* * *

“What do you mean, no recruit?” Alistair said as soon as Duncan joined their troops at Ostagar, alone and three weeks later than planned. “Your letter told me to await you with a dwarf, or did I read it wrong? I can never tell with your handwriting.”

“Not now, Alistair.” Duncan suppressed an irritated scowl. Lately, it was becoming harder and harder to control his temper. That little rogue had outfoxed a fox, stealing away with all his money and leaving him with no other choice but to waste even more time on the road. Not only did he have no means to pay for a boat, but he also had to trek all the way up to Highever, only to find the castle half-destroyed and ransacked and learn that he came too late: almost the entire family and most of the guards had been slaughtered a week prior. He should have gone to the Circle instead! Because when he finally got there, there was no one to recruit! _That damned dwarf!_ He should have tied her down. Add to that the dreams… Suffice to say, Duncan was in a mood most foul. He rubbed his forehead; his headache was killing him.

“Gather the recruits and lead them to the Wilds. I also want you to collect the old treaties. I’ve crossed the location on the map, here. We will conduct the Joining on the morrow.”

Not waiting for a reply, Duncan shoved the map at Alistair and trudged closer to the fire to set up his tent.

* * *

“Why are you looking at flowers?” Ser Jory asked, an hour into the journey, darting nervous looks at the swamp as if expecting a hoard of demons to spring out of its depths. They had already had a skirmish with a small group of the darkspawn, and — grumbling and whining in Jory’s case — collected the vial of their blood each.

“Maybe it’s a secret ingredient, eh?” Daveth made a move to nudge Jory in the ribs but thought better of it. Ser knight’s armour was a lot harder than his elbow.

“Or maybe,” Alistair said, carefully plucking Wilds Flowers, two to be on the safe side, “I want to make a circlet. Every Warden wears one to battle.”

Daveth snorted. “Yeah, right, mate.”

“You say this now,” Alistair said, his tone serious, “but once you see how pretty it makes me, you’ll want one, too. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

* * *

“… What have we here? Scavengers? Thieves?”

The Chasind-looking woman that swooped on them like a hawk was pretty in a wild way, like the spirit of the Wilds itself took form and came to mock him.

“Look, we need these treaties. Whatever you’ve done with them, they are better not be destroyed. Or —” Alistair had to think of a suitable threat. As luck would have it, nothing came to mind “— I will do something bad. You don’t want to see that.”

Her lips twisted into a sardonic smile. “I quiver in my boots.”

“You should.”

The witch shook her head and heaved a sigh, probably asking patience of whatever evil deity she worshipped. “’Tis pointless. Your precious treaties are with my mother.”

And, of course, he couldn’t find a better way to negotiate their return than accuse the infamous Witch of the Wilds of theft and demand of her daughter their immediate return. _Way to go, Alistair._ Sometimes, he surprised even himself.

The young witch before him was talking again.

“… Mother has kept them safe.”

And now he felt bad for insulting the old woman. Great. Well, nothing for it.

“Just… Tell us where to find your mother,” Alistair said. “We will fetch the documents and be on our way.”

* * *

The Joining was a disaster. Neither of the recruits had survived, though for two completely different reasons. Alistair mourned Daveth, the third brother he witnessed lost to the taint. Ser Jory, however… The knight’s cowardice hadn’t surprised Alistair, and while he understood the need for secrecy of the ritual, it didn’t lessen the shock of watching his mentor kill an innocent man.

* * *

“You want me away from the action? Is it because I’m the youngest Warden or because of my parentage?” Alistair’s voice rose in a challenge, daring Duncan to contradict him. “I thought you’d stop mollycoddling me.”

“Watch your tongue!” Duncan snapped. Pressing his lips together, he rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry, Alistair —” he sighed “— but this is non-negotiable. The beacon is important, and I trust you to light it in time.”

Suitably chastised, Alistair lowered his head, eyes downcast. “All right. But just so you know, if you kill all the darkspawn by yourself, I will be very sad.”

Duncan sighed again, this time in exasperation. Then he put a hand on Alistair’s shoulder and waited until their gazes met. “Maker watch over you, Alistair.”

Swallowing with unease, Alistair bit the inside of his cheek and, after a moment of indecision, pulled him into a one-armed hug. “Please, be careful, Duncan.”

Later, reflecting on this moment, he would be glad they parted ways more or less amicably.

* * *

Waking up was a surprise. An unpleasant one.

“And so you live,” the witch, Morrigan, said, staring down at him from the foot of the bed, her face impassive. “Interesting.”

“Ugh.” Everything hurt like Alistair had challenged a windmill to a hand-to-hand and lost, not counting on its buddies scarecrows joining in on the fun. Spotting a mug nearby, he gulped down some water, choked, and spluttered.

“Very articulate. No, I don’t blame you — your skull _was_ cracked. And you didn’t seem very intelligent, to begin with. How mother expects you to rally an army against the Blight is beyond me.” The way the witch said it, volume gradually lowering to a mutter, Alistair assumed she was thinking aloud. Still, it didn’t sit well with him to be called stupid.

“I’d like to see you try to do better after going against an ogre and then getting swamped… by a horde…” His croak trailed off as memories flooded in. _The battle, the beacon, the army!_ “What happened?” Alistair pushed himself up on his elbows. “Did anyone else survive?”

“If they did, I am not aware of it.” Morrigan shrugged with casual indifference. “You will have to ask mother for details. She brought only you.”

The witch walked out, leaving him in suspense until he could get up and question Flemeth.

* * *

“How long are you going to mope here?” Morrigan asked later, finding him outside of the hut. “Mother healed you well, did she not?”

Alistair ignored her, resolutely staring into the fire.

“I’m wondering when I will have my bed back.”

When he failed to provide an answer, a booted toe poked him in the ribs, and Alistair regretted not putting on his armour. He turned to glare at the witch. “Do you also kick puppies in your spare time?”

“Only the irritating ones,” Morrigan sneered.

“If it were up to me, I’d be out of here hours ago.”

“What’s stopping you then?” She arched a brow, crossing her arms. “Is it the pleasure of my company you seek to prolong or the fascinating sights of the swamp you seem riveted to?”

Alistair scowled. “I’d like nothing more than to never see your face again. It gives me indigestion.”

“Believe me, the feeling is mutual!” With a huff, Morrigan stormed back into the hut, banging the door closed with such force, it barely stayed on its hinges.

* * *

“Thank you, I guess, for saving my life.” Alistair twirled the treaties between his fingers, velum soft and seemingly untouched by age. “And for saving this documents. Again.” Sighing, he put them into his backpack to keep company with some basic supplies Flemeth had so kindly provided.

“Ah, you _do_ have manners after all! How novel.” Throwing her head back, Flemeth laughed.

Goosebumps broke along Alistair’s back, and he shivered. “Yes, well.” He shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I do need to go.”

The laughter stopped abruptly. “Tell me, boy, how do you plan to stop the Blight?” Flemeth’s piercing eyes rooted him to the ground.

“Uh.” Feeling small and uncertain, Alistair scratched the back of his neck and stared at the hut behind the old woman. Anything to escape her gaze. “I was thinking of contacting the Grey Wardens in Orlais and the Free Marches.”

“And by the time your messages reach them, and they come to your aid, Ferelden will suffocate under the darkspawn forces.”

Alistair swallowed. “I… can’t go to the king, obviously, because he is dead. Maybe the queen will listen?”

Flemeth gave him a flat look. “Why don’t you use your head, boy?”

“ _A-and_ I can call on the Dalish elves and the dwarves, right. Surely, they will help?” Against his will, it came out as a question.

Flemeth shook her head; dirty grey hair briefly obscured her face. “That won’t do. That won’t do at all. You need to toughen up, boy.”

Her eyes bored into him again, making it hard to think. And why was she calling him a boy, anyway?

“You are the last Grey Warden in Ferelden. The fate of this land depends on you.” Each word sounded like a new branch thrown onto his funeral pyre. “You need to be a _leader_.”

“But I, I’m not sure if I can.” Alistair had no idea why he was being this forthright with her, but he didn’t have anyone else to turn to, and it felt good to voice his doubts. Besides, the look in her eyes… It was like Flemeth knew _everything_. It was more than simply unsettling. And so he said, “I’m more of a follower. I was never meant to lead,” hoping she’d give him some kind of useful advice, but—

Flemeth pressed her lips into a thin line. “ Do you see anyone else who can take this mantle? ”

_She didn’t call me a boy this time,_ Alistair thought inanely, gripping the straps of his backpack tighter and striving not to feel disappointment.

“I ask of you that you take my daughter on your journey. She is a skilled mage and will help you complete your mission.”

_“Wha—?!”_ Alistair sputtered, all his fear of the Witch of the Wilds temporarily forgotten. “What? No, I can’t do that!” Go anywhere with that harpy? Maker, no!

Hands on her thighs, Flemeth stared him down.

“She will kill me in my sleep!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, boy,” Flemeth snapped. “Morrigan doesn’t want to see the world burn any more than you do.” Clearly deciding the matter settled, she turned away from him and saying, “I will tell her to pack. It won’t take long,” left him to stand alone. Only then did Alistair notice that the Wilds were eerie quiet.

* * *

They made the way to Lothering in heavy silence, Morrigan smarting from being ordered to go with him and Alistair mourning the deaths of his brothers. The village could be seen in the distance when the witch finally broke their unspoken truce.

“Is brooding the special Grey Warden skill that is supposed to help us stop the Blight?” she asked out of the blue.

Alistair glanced at her sideways, not breaking his stride. “What are you talking about?”

“You have been wallowing in self-pity for long enough, don’t you agree?”

His eyes narrowed. “Excuse me that my need to grieve has inconvenienced you so. Shall I just stop having a heart like you seem to have done?”

The witch scoffed, “Tell that to the Archdemon when it bears down on you, and all you have to use against him is your powerful brooding technique.”

Alistair stopped and turned so he could glare at her properly, fists clenched. “I have a better idea: I will just throw you at it, and it will instantly die of poisoning!”

A rustle, followed by the sound of someone approaching at speed, interrupted whatever Morrigan was going to say. A huge mabari hound bounced Alistair’s way.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said, relaxing and kneeling to scratch the dog’s neck. “I’m glad you survived. How did you find me?”

“How do you expect it to answer? It cannot speak,” Morrigan said, rolling her eyes, which Alistair ignored in favour of looking the dog over. The mabari’s fur was dirty, but he was unharmed.

The dog whined and licked Alistair’s face, short tail wagging, and grimacing, Alistair wiped the slobber off. “I’m happy to see you, too, but please, don’t do this again.”

The dog’s whine changed in pitch.

“Oh, don’t be sad.” Alistair scratched one of the dog’s ears in apology. “Hmm… How should I name you?”

“Ugh! Don’t tell me you are going to keep this mangy mutt.” Taking a step away from them, Morrigan wrinkled her nose in disgust. “It smells worse than a cesspool.”

Taking the dog’s head in both hands, Alistair looked him in the — _very intelligent —_ eyes. “Don’t listen to her, Dog. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

“You are naming your dog Dog?” the witch asked, eyebrows raised. “How imaginative,” she scoffed. “As if it wasn’t bad enough I have to stop you from getting killed. I’m not looking after your mutt too.”

“Don’t worry” — grinning, Alistair scratched Dog’s ears one last time and stood up — “he is a fierce warrior and can look after you himself.”

Morrigan sneered in disbelieve. However, the next battle, during which Dog saved her from getting skewered on a hurlock’s scimitar, proved Alistair’s words right.

* * *

“Oh, a pious Chantry devotee, and crazy to boot. Just what we need. Tell me you aren’t seriously considering letting her join us,” Morrigan said, crossing her arms and tilting her head back to look at Alistair down her nose.

Alistair wasn’t, not until she’d said it, but now… The idea suddenly gained merit. Besides, Leliana was pretty, and her clear, open gaze provided a refreshing contrast to Morrigan’s narrowed glances.

“You are most welcome,” Alistair said, ignoring the witch’s huff.

“I am?” A radiant smile bloomed on Leliana’s face, making her even prettier. “Oh, thank you!” She clasped her hands and brought them to her chest. The way she was holding herself, Alistair got the impression Leliana was a breath away from jumping in place, she looked _that_ excited. “Meet me at the gates in thirty minutes. I will get my things and get ready.” Darting to the door, she paused at the last moment, turning to Alistair long enough to say, “You won’t regret it, I promise!”

“I do, already,” Morrigan muttered with a sour expression, and Leliana must have heard it because her face had darkened slightly before she disappeared out of sight.

“Good thing your opinion doesn’t count,” Alistair told Morrigan. Dog bumped into his hand, asking to be petted and distracting him from the glaring.

* * *

A caged Qunari joined them at Leliana’s urging, and this time, even Morrigan agreed with his decision to bring Sten along, gaining Alistair’s suspicious stare. The witch just stared back, a slight smile playing on her lips, until Alistair shook his head, muttering, “You are so evil,” and turned away.

Sten, quiet and taciturn, answered questions reluctantly and only ever spoke first to offer remarks on Alistair’s leadership, to Morrigan’s open delight. It was irritating, and Alistair foresaw the inevitable confrontation not far in the future, but for now, he deflected with humour and moved on.

His first major decision as a leader, aside from picking up new companions and agreeing to let Bodahn and his son tag along, was to go to Redcliffe. Morrigan, predictably, sneered when Alistair announced it but didn’t comment, and for once, he refrained from asking.

One night at the camp, Leliana asked him about the Wardens that died at Ostagar. Alistair hadn’t spoken with anyone about that day, but his grief was a heavy burden to carry alone. He was suffocating under the weight of responsibility. In halting sentences heavy with long pauses, he told her about them. About Duncan, and who he was to Alistair, and what his loss meant.

When he was finished, she covered his hand with her own, so much smaller and softer, and said, “Maker, guide their souls into the light. I am sorry for your loss.”

And the feeling of intense loneliness abated just a little.


	2. Chapter 2

“Alistair!” Teagan said, coming to meet him and his party, eyes widening in surprise. “Good news, at last!”

Ever since Ostagar, everyone had been calling him Warden as if the title had replaced his name, making Alistair a function instead of a person. To be addressed with familiarity was a relief.

“Bann Teagan, you haven’t changed at all since I last saw you!”

They hugged, and Alistair felt curious glances directed at his back. Stepping away, he introduced his companions and caught Leliana’s inquiring look.

“I lived here at the stable until I was ten,” he told her, suddenly uncomfortable.

Morrigan was the one to comment. “That explains your manners.”

“At least I don’t curdle milk just by looking at it,” he shot back.

Glancing from her to Alistair, Teagan cleared his throat. “I fear, you came at a bad time, my friend. The village is besieged by the undead.”

* * *

“If I never again smell the stench of rotting corpses set on fire, it will be too soon,” Alistair muttered, wiping his damp forehead. After the night he had, he longed for a warm bath, a hearty meal, and a soft bed. Not that Alistair could have gotten any of those things anytime soon, of course, but the thought lingered, making his growling stomach ache with emptiness.

Meeting Isolde didn’t even register on his Things That Will Sour My Day Further list. He had long since forgiven her and stopped feeling bitter.

“Isolde, you remember Alistair?” Teagan asked.

Seeing no recognition on her face even as she said, “Yes, yes, Alistair. Of course, I remember you,” and then her dismissal, mind a thousand steps away — back at the castle… It stung. Alistair spent so long resenting her, and the Arlessa had forgotten all about him. Somehow it didn’t seem fair.

“What is going on? What aren’t you telling us?” he asked, tired of being treated like a see-through glass.

Flinching, Isolde spared him a glance, straightened, and demanded that Teagan “do something about his ‘inappropriate behaviour.’”

“This is a waste of time,” Sten said, and, wonder of wonders, Alistair felt the same.

“I agree, this is going nowhere. We came here to ask Earl Eamon’s help, saved the village instead, and now you simply dismiss us? Your hospitality knows no boundaries, Lady Isolde.” Fine, maybe he hadn’t let go of all the bitterness, but there had been so much of it, something must have gone unnoticed.

His words shocked the Arlessa into silence. Teagan smoothed things over, as he always did, and a smidgen of irritation found its way to Alistair’s heart. He was alone and on a mission, Earl Eamon could have died at any moment, and his loving wife couldn’t even aсcept a freely given offer of assistance.

In just five minutes, Lady Isolde had managed to remind him of all the reasons Alistair couldn’t stand her and rekindled the flames of his resentment.

* * *

Nothing since the start was simple, but a blood mage? A demon in Eamon’s son’s body? Alistair found that he didn’t feel prepared for it to any more than he did for leadership. What did he do in his previous life? Drowned a sack full of kittens?! Was the universe conspiring against him?

“And suddenly I feel like thanking the Reverend Mother,” Alistair muttered, cleansing the hall of the demon’s magic. With more enjoyment than what would be prudent, he Holy Smote Teagan, freeing him from the mind control and thus ending the fight.

This time, they got the full story while Isolde sobbed and pleaded with Alistair to save her son.

“I say we kill the boy and be done with it.” Morrigan shrugged her bare shoulders, looking for all the world like she was talking about putting down a lame pup. “He was weak enough to fall prey to a demon.”

As if his weakness in the face of a tragedy was a valid reason to kill a child. _Well,_ Alistair amended, _apparently,_ _for her it is._

“No! Please, I’m begging you!” Isolde was almost hysterical, and Alistair couldn’t take it. He hated women’s tears; they made him feel helpless.

“We are not killing Connor. This is my final decision.”

Morrigan snorted. “As you wish, _Warden._ ” The way she said it, it could very well be a vile insult.

“But what do we do?” Leliana asked.

_That_ was a good question. So good, in fact, that he kept asking it himself. It was quickly becoming his mantra. Sadly, Alistair had no idea what was the answer. To his surprise, Jowan saved him from admitting that truth.

“There is a solution.” The mage strode forward, shrinking in on himself under their stares.

“I thought you’d be halfway to Denerim by now,” Alistair blurted without thinking and brought with it a lovely argument on himself.

In the end, much to Sten and Morrigan’s continuous disapproval, he chose to seek help from the Circle of Magi. However much he still disliked Isolde, she didn’t deserve to die. And standing by his decision was made easier with Leliana smiling at him.

* * *

Later, in a quiet corner of the boat where no one could overhear — not counting Dog. Even if he could, his mabari wouldn’t tell it anyone, anyway — Alistair told Leliana of his childhood and parentage. Granted, he could have chosen the words better.

“So you know, I probably should have told you sooner.” Alistair paused, his stomach clenching uncomfortably. “I’m a royal bastard.”

“Um…” Her face turned a curious shade of red. This was not a reaction he had expected, nor any one of the scenarios he’d imagined.

“Oh, laugh it up. I can’t watch you holding it in anymore,” he grumbled.

“I’m sorry,” Leliana said between gales of laughter, “but this is —” a pause “— hilarious.” And she broke into giggles. “Please don’t be mad. It’s just… You were so serious.”

“I can _never_ be mad at you.” Alistair sighed. “My father was King Maric. I guess, what they say is true — he couldn’t simply walk by a pretty maid.” And so that story was out. What was it about Leliana that made him want to pour out his heart?

* * *

Disembarking from one boat, Alistair led the group to the ferryman that would take them to the Tower on another. Only, there already was someone with the same idea, and the man was refusing her.

“Look, I’m going to get there one way or another. If you don’t take me across this sodding lake, I’ll swim! And you know how well dwarves swim? Like a fucking axe! I’ll drown! Do you _want_ me to drown?”

The man shifted from foot to foot but didn’t budge. “Not my problem. They said no one goes across the lake, and that means no dwarves, too. Swim like an axe or like a feather, I don’t care.”

The woman growled. “Lookie here, tin can, either you take me there on your boat, or you won’t have a boat.” For such a small person, she was ridiculously menacing.

The ferryman, twice her height and three times her width, cowed. “Hey, now! There’s no need for threats—” he started, but Alistair interrupted the exchange.

“What’s going on here?”

The woman turned to him, her expression clearing. “Oh, here you are!” she said in such a bright tone, as if he was the Maker himself.

Alistair blinked, taken aback by the attitude change, but decided to plough ahead, regardless. “We need to get to the Circle Tower,” he said to the ferryman. “Grey Wardens’ business.”

“I have orders not to bring anyone there. The Tower is closed, anyway. But if you are Grey Wardens…” the ferryman drawled, thinking. This was his chance to get away from the pesky dwarf. “I guess I can make an exception.”

“Finally, let’s go!” The dwarf went around the ferryman to the boat, only to be stopped by his indignant cry,

“That didn’t mean _you!”_

She whirled back to him. “I’m with them.”

The ferryman snorted. “Yer a Grey Warden now?”

“Of course not.” She actually looked affronted. But before the ferryman’s smug ‘that’s what I thought’ expression could take roots, she continued, pointing at Alistair, “This is my brother,” like it should have been obvious to him from the start.

The smug expression turned into sceptical. “You don’t look very much alike.”

“He is my brother from a different mother. Our old man was into all sorts of women.” The woman took a step toward him. “You have something against my mom? You don’t like dwarves? Is that it?!” She looked like she was about to lunge at him and rip out his throat with her teeth, mabari-style, and still somehow she managed to be adorable.

Dog seemed envious.

_It must be her big blue eyes and a blonde ponytail,_ Alistair thought. If it were up to him, he’d have caved the moment she glanced at him from under her eyelashes, saying, ‘Please.’ _He must really dislike dwarves_.

The poor man glanced at Alistair, wordlessly asking to end this one woman madhouse performance. He was, however, out of luck.

Deciding to play the part, Alistair put a hand on the hilt of his sword and, barely keeping a straight face, said in a grave tone, “My sister goes with us.”

“Fine, fine.” Backing away, the ferryman manoeuvred until Alistair was between him and the dwarf. “I won’t even charge you. Just keep her away from me!”

* * *

“Thanks, man!” Natia said to the cute blondie as soon as the nug humper was out of earshot. “I owe you one.”

He looked at her and, finally able to let go of the severe expression, broke out in a fit of unmanly giggles. 

“Oh, that was good,” he said after taking the laughter under control. “Don’t mention it. It was the most fun I’ve had in… In a while. I keep imaging Sten saying things like” — he lowered his voice — “‘Fun is irrelevant. It has no meaning. How will having fun help you fight the Blight?’” Abruptly, his mood dampened.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was really your sister,” said his redhead companion, taking blondie’s hand and giving it a squeeze. She didn’t let it go immediately, lingering slightly longer than the gesture of friendship would require and subtly glancing at Natia in a significant way that all dusters knew well since a very young age.

_Staking a claim? All the handsome ones are taken, huh?_ Natia though with dry amusement.

To Natia, the redhead said, smiling, “I’m Leliana, and your brother, as you no doubt know, is Alistair. His dog is called Dog.”

“You named your dog Dog?” Natia raised her eyebrows and hooted with delight at Alistair’s sheepish expression. “Good one! I’d do it, too!”

“Thanks.” He blushed. Ancestors, this man was _something_. “I’ll be sure to tell Morrigan that.”

“So are you really Grey Wardens?”

“Only I am,” Alistair said. “Though, Dog is an honorary Warden” — the dog woofed — “and Leliana is helping me with my mission. Our other two companions have stayed behind.”

“Huh. So it’s true what they say.”

Alistair tensed. “What?”

“That there’s only one Ostagar survivor from your Order.” _Thank fuck I didn’t join it. Best decision of my life to date!_

“Oh.” He relaxed, but the corners of his mouth turned down. “I thought you were going to say that the Wardens betrayed the king.”

“Nah, it’s clearly a load of bullshit. Did you know you have a price on your head?”

“It was brought to my attention, yes.” With clenched jaw and fire in his eyes, Alistair looked the part of a true warrior of legends, noble and strong, a griffon on his chest plate glinted in the last rays of the setting sun as he walked the steps leading to the Tower entrance. “Loghain will pay for his betrayal.”

Following him through the doorway, Natia discreetly checked for drool. _Well, maybe giving Duncan the slip wasn’t the best decision. I’d have gotten to you first. If I’ve survived. Nope, false alarm._ “Sure thing, cupcake.” And before he could proceed this, “Oh, look, that moss-licker wasn’t lying — the tin cans have barricaded the doors!”

* * *

During the negotiation of their way into the Tower, the dwarf, whose name he still didn’t know, paled so much, her freckles stood out like blots of ink on a parchment. So Alistair was rather surprised to see her entering the Apprentice Quarters with them.

“What?” she asked at his inquiring look.

“Just wondering what a dwarf could possibly want in the Circle Tower so much as to risk a brutal death. Is it the books? I’ve heard they have quite a library here.”

“I’ve never seen abominations, and I’ve a wager going that they aren’t uglier than the darkspawn,” she told him without breaking her stride. “Call me mad, but I need to check it.”

Alistair’s eyebrows attempted to hit his hairline. “That does sound mad.”

She shrugged. “Don’t knock it. I have good money riding on it.” She paused, her eyes widening. “Oh, look, survivors.”

* * *

Cleaning room after room of the horrible things that used to be people, Natia was cursing her timing, the Carta, Rogek, the Carta again for hoarding so many job opportunities, and the timing for good measure. If she hadn’t stopped to make a quick coin helping to deliver messages for the Mage Collective, she’d have gotten to the Circle long before this shit storm broke out.

The abomination she was currently engaged with proved to be especially trying. Patience wearing thin, Natia screamed into its meaty face, “Die already, you weak willed fuck!”

“Need a hand?” Leliana asked.

“Make it three, and I’ll take the deal!” she shouted back, wondering why would she need three additional hands and how easy it would make pickpocketing.

Three arrows flew into the abomination, braining it, and finally, it crumbled to the floor. Natia jumped aside, well out of range of the impending explosion. One time was more than enough.

“Thanks!”

Enemies dealt with, she looked around. _A-and… there!_ A wardrobe in the corner drew her attention. She strolled to it and rapped her knuckles on the wooden panel.

“Knock knock, anyone home? Come out to play!” she singsonged.

The wardrobe answered in a frightened male voice, “Nobody’s here! Go away!”

“It’s safe now. We have killed all abominations,” Leliana said, appearing next to Natia.

The doors opened just a crack, and a human face peered outside. “You’ve killed them all?”

“Yep.” Natia squinted. He did fall under the right description. “Godwin?”

The door opened some more, and the man inside asked, his voice laced with suspicion, “Who wants to know?”

“Name’s Natia. Your grandma sends her regards and a little something in a basket.”

“What grandma?”

Natia levelled at him a meaningful glare. “A very grumpy one.”

“Oh, right,” Godwin said, crumpling the material of his robe, his eyes darting around, “Granny Agnes.”

“Um-hum.” Natia pulled a parcel with lyrium out of her bag and thrust it at the mage. “Enjoy the wine!”

“Right, thanks.”

The parcel disappeared with such speed, even Natia was impressed. She pocketed her payment a bit slower.

“Pleasure doing business with you.” The doors closed with a snap. “Asshole.” _In case I ever have to see you, coward, again, let’s hope you won’t think it was me who emptied your pockets._

“What was that?” Alistair said, done going through the content of bookcases and bureaus, the elderly mage, Wynne, and Dog standing behind his back.

Glancing at Leliana with the blank expression usually reserved for law enforcement agents — ‘Move along, nothing to see here,’ Natia said, “A simple business transaction.” 

Wynne frowned, but Alistair didn’t pursue it further. “Fine, let’s go.”

* * *

The Sloth demon’s trap was a hard blow. It didn’t take long to figure out that what he was seeing wasn’t real, but Alistair’s heart clenched painfully in his chest. Duncan, alive and well, saying that the Blight is over, was too good to be real. With the turns his life had taken to following lately, his luck wasn’t that good. But what really tipped Alistair off were Goldanna and her children. In Weisshaupt.

“Take your own form and fight me,” he said to Duncan, bitter and angry, his lips — a hard line. “Hiding behind the avatars won’t help you, demon.”

“Fool! I have offered you peace, and you dare to refuse me? You will die like all your precious brothers!” At least, its voice no longer sounded like Duncan’s. Slashing through his mentor’s torso, Alistair tried to find comfort in that.

* * *

Stepping into the others’ nightmares felt like invading their privacy. Only Dog’s was simple and uncomplicated. Though Alistair did learn something about his new companion. She was sitting on a stone bench with another dwarf, a pretty redhead with an infant, bundled in an embroidered blanket, held in her arms.

“Alistair, come, join us. This is my sister, Rica,” she said when he came through the portal. “She has caught her big break — gave birth to a son. Now she is some noble’s concubine.” Smiling, she nudged the demon in the side. “But she still wouldn’t tell me who it is.”

The demon lowered its head demurely. “I’ve told you, he is a very private person.”

“Yeah, but now I’m his family, too, so what gives?”

“It is a demon,” Alistair said, tired of mind games. “Don’t listen to anything it tells you.”

“That’s a first,” the dwarf snorted. “She has teeth when needed, all right, but nobody’s ever called my sweet-tempered sister a demon.”

Alistair sighed. “How did we get here?”

She raises an eyebrow. “By foot?”

“Think of what happened before it and where _here_ is exactly.” He watched as the realisation dawned, along with disappointment.

“Damn. I knew it was too good to be true.” Jumping from the bench, she turned to the demon still wearing her sister’s skin, daggers unsheathed. “All right, let’s dance.”

* * *

After the endless labyrinths of the Fade, Alistair was so glad to be back in the real world and _not alone_ , he hugged Dog, fingers burrowing into his short fur and holding on for dear life. He felt bone-tired and weary, sick of all the death and destruction, but the ordeal had made him stronger, Alistair was sure of it.

Leliana came to stand next to him, her brows furrowed. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Alistair said into Dog’s neck. Then he straightened, patted Dog on the head in parting, and turned to the others. “Dog needed reassurance after what that big bad demon showed him.”

The mabari whined.

“Don’t worry, puppy, we’re going to find you a huge sugar bone soon. In fact, let’s do it as soon as we are out of here,” Alistair offered. “Sounds good?”

The dog answered with a resounding bark.

“I’ll take it as a ‘yes.’”

* * *

Meeting Cullen brought back memories of his life in the Chantry. _It could have been me standing here, raving about killing all mages,_ Alistair thought. Gratefulness to Duncan for sparing him that fate flooded him and a sharp pain of loss pierced his heart. At that moment, Alistair knew with crystal clarity: he wouldn’t find peace until the traitor was dead by his hand. He would do anything to make it happen. Anything less wouldn’t satisfy the ache in his soul.

* * *

“That poor man,” Wynne said later, when they had finally secured the Tower. She was watching Cullen talking to Knight-Commander. Every now and then, the young man would stare at the mages will such loathing, it made even Alistair’s skin crawl.

“I can’t imagine what horrors he must have endured,” Wynne continued, shaking her head.

“Isn’t it kind of the same experience that mages go through?” Alistair asked. That was bothering him from the start of this Tower of Horrors.

Wynne’s voice grew cold. “What do you mean, Warden?”

“The Harrowing. Aren’t you supposed to fight the demons on your own to prove that you can resist possession?”

“Well” — Wynne’s lined forehead creased into new patterns — “I suppose it is not so dissimilar, but we, mages, spend our whole lives learning to and actively resisting demons…”

“And Templars learn the same thing. Before I became a Warden, I trained to be a Templar.” 

“You did?” Leliana asked. “I’d like to hear that story.”

“There’s nothing interesting to tell, really. But if you want to hear about my miserable life as an awful Templar, I’ll tell you all about it later.”

The Knight-Commander walked to them then, and the topic shifted to the Blight and treaties, Harrowing and its similarities to recent events soon forgotten.

* * *

“That was fun. Let’s never do it again,” Natia said to the group at large, standing at exactly the same spot where they met. The solid wood of the dock under her feet gave her a sense of stability after the uncomfortable sailing. Boats just weren’t for her.

“It was good, fighting with you,” Leliana said. “You were a great help.”

“You weren’t half bad yourself.” Natia winked.

Alistair scratched the back of his neck, cleared his throat. “Why don’t you join us? Dog and I would like to have someone who appreciates his name by our side.”

“M—mm, maybe. What’s in it for me?”

Alistair seemed taken aback. _Maybe so far all the people who joined him were heroic altruists? Ah, no matter._

“Fighting for a good cause?” he suggested, his eyebrows raising slightly.

“A girl gotta eat, you know.” _Please, make it worth my time, blondie._

“Isn’t it interesting how even during the Blight food still takes priority? Hmm… I’d go for a lamb stew myself, come to think of it.” He tugged at his earlobe, thinking. “Part of the loot and pay for any jobs we take is yours. Will it do or do you want me to dance the marigold as well? I’m pretty good at it, you know.”

“That depends. Will you wear a dress?”

Alistair looked skywards. “You had to ask that, didn’t you?” He shook his head. “No, dresses is where I draw the line.”

“Too bad, but I guess I can live with that,” Natia said, keeping the serious expression in place. This human was fun to be around. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

“Excellent. Do I get to know your name now, or am I to continue calling you ‘the pretty female dwarf’ in my head?” he asked.

“You think me pretty?” Natia almost laughed at his nug-in-the-torchlight expression. That last bit must have slipped without his conscious decision.

“Well… You are,” Alistair stammered. “Pretty, I mean. Objectively speaking. You don’t have warts, or a crooked nose, or a hunch. That would be awful. And you have all your teeth. As far as I have seen. Not that I’ve been looking at your teeth! The would be weird. I’ve just noticed that you have nice teeth, white and straight, that’s all.” The more he talked, the deeper his blush went.

Not bothering to hide her grin anymore, Natia was thoroughly enjoying the show. To her right, Leliana looked like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to laugh or hide her face in her hands. Natia could sympathise.

“Maker, I’m just making it worse, aren’t I?” Taking a deep breath, Alistair stared at the footworn planks. “I will just shut up and go find a convenient hole to hide. Maybe the darkspawn would like some company.”

And hunching his shoulders, Alistair walked in the direction of another boat, Dog at his side.

Laughing, Natia strolled after them. 

_At least, I won’t be bored._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my [tumblr](http://afrokot-jl.tumblr.com), where I post snippets of future chapters (since yesterday) and ramble on about (mostly) DA-related topics.


	3. Chapter 3

Back at Redcliffe Castle, Alistair gave Jowan a chance to redeem himself, if such a thing was even possible after what the blood mage had done. Alistair had his doubts, but Jowan’s words rang true with sincerity. That and Wynne’s concerned motherly looks touched his heart. The blood mage didn’t falter and did as promised. Conor was saved and demon-free.

“I hope he won’t remember any of it,” Alistair said quietly. “I don’t envy his nightmares, and _I_ get to watch the Archdemon.”

“You dream of the Archdemon?” the dwarf asked.

_Damn, I should have waited for her name._

She was leaning against a wall opposite to the child’s chambers, and Alistair cursed his long tongue — it wasn’t done to blab the secrets of the Order left, right, and centre — and a lapse of attention. Though, in the interests of being fair, he acknowledged her tendency to appear and disappear into thin air.

“It’s been known to happen. Want fun times with a tainted Old God? Join Grey Wardens. Hm. Maybe I will make it our new slogan. Think there will be a line to enlist?”

The dwarf’s lips twisted into a wry smile. “I wouldn’t bet on it. How about you promise a free armour? That could bolster your numbers.”

“See, for that, I’d have to actually have spare equipment, and that means I’d have to lug it around. And _that_ will break my back, and _then_ you’ll have to carry _me_ around, and since I’m too heavy for you, your back will suffer, too, and I can’t in good consciousness let that happen,” Alistair said, keeping a straight face. “So that option is out.”

Her face mirroring his, she nodded. “We will have to think of something else then.”

“Congratulations.” Morrigan’s sneering voice interrupted their playful exchange, and Alistair turned to look at her. Sure enough, her upper lip was curled in a way that he came to associate with extremely unpleasant things, like the mess Dog left after eating mouldy cheese or Morrigan herself. “You have managed to find the only person in all Thedas who understands your prattling.”

“We can’t all be without a sense of humour. Did you lose yours in a swamp? If you ask Dog nicely, I’m sure he will help you search for it next time we are in the Korcari Wilds,” Alistair said. 

The time away from the witch was too brief a respite. Sometimes, Alistair wondered if he were to forget her somewhere, say, in the middle of a dense forest, would she find him again? Only the thought of her mother’s wrath stopped him from running away when he had the chance, back at the beginning of their journey. The way Flemeth imposed Morrigan’s help on him screamed of a hidden agenda, and Alistair wouldn’t put it past the Witch of the Wilds to know the moment her plans were in jeopardy. That woman was _scary_ and possibly not even human.

Morrigan huffed, ignoring his words. With a haughty expression, she said, “Tell Bann Teagan, I’m not an errand boy. Next time he wants to talk with you, he will have to find you himself.”

“Charming lady, she,” the dwarf said, watching the witch stride down the corridor, a staff on her back.

Alistair snorted. “If she is a lady, I’m the Queen of Antiva.”

Glancing at him with mischief dancing in her eyes, the dwarf sketched a bow. “After you, Your Majesty.”

* * *

They were ambushed on the way to Denerim. Alistair had to concede, it was a skilful trap, employing a woman in distress. His morals couldn’t possibly let him pass her by without trying to help. The assassin was good, though, the same couldn’t be said for his hired help. However, Alistair was better. 

He stared at the bound, unconscious man at his feet. The assassin did not stir.

Their dwarf crouched next to the elf with a clear intention of poking and maybe slapping him awake. Wynne saw it too and beat her to it with a spell. The elf’s eyelids fluttered and, groaning, he opened his eyes. Steeling himself, Alistair started the interrogation.

* * *

_Second chances_ , he thought, listening to Zevran’s pledge of loyalty. _Second chances and the last resort. That’s what we are all about._ First Sten, then Jowan, and now Zevran. It felt like all he did these days was give second chances and kill monsters. _I hope you are proud of me, Duncan. You did like to snatch condemned right off the scaffolds._

And his decision to spare Zevran came close to exploding Morrigan’s head, which would have been a nice bonus if that happened.

* * *

“Warden? May I speak with you?” Leliana asked Alistair when they stopped for the night, a two days walk away from Denerim.

Lately, with so many new people around, they were unable to spend any time together. He missed their talks.

“Of course. I was meaning to talk to you myself.” He just couldn’t find the right moment.

Alistair led her to the edge of the camp and stopped near Dog, trusting him not to interrupt and to guard them, should that need arise. “What did you have in mind?”

“I remember you talking about your mother and her amulet,” Leliana started.

“What of it?”

Instead of answering, Leliana held her hand to him. On her open palm lay an amulet — a silver emblem of Andraste’s flame, whole and unbroken, an exact replica of the one he had so carelessly destroyed.

It was such a simple trinket, and yet nobody had ever given him anything that didn’t serve a practical purpose, not since he left for the Chantry. His breath caught in his throat. Alistair swallowed. “Thank you,” he said in a voice full of emotions.

“No need. I’m happy it brought you joy. You need more of it in your life.”

Tracing the flames with his thumb, Alistair looked at her. Her face had that soft, sweet smile that always made his gaze linger. “Where did you find it? I thought Reverent Mother Hanna didn’t have any left.”

“Natia gave it to me before we left Redcliffe,” Leliana admitted. “She thought that since I was a lay sister, I might appreciate it.” She shrugged. “There wasn’t a good time to give it to you earlier. Someone always wants your attention,” she said, and Alistair forgot to ask who Natia was. Leliana didn’t sound accusing, but an awful guilt flooded him anyway. Alistair felt like he had neglected her, badly. Which wasn’t her intention, he knew, but the sudden need to apologise was almost overwhelming.

Leading a group of vastly different people with sometimes clashing personalities, even united by a common goal, was proving more difficult that Alistair could have ever imagined. He needed to get to know every one of them to trust them on and off the battlefield, and that kind of trust took time.

The dwarf seemed to always brighten his mood. She got his jokes and ran with them, making him laugh. She was easy to talk to and fun to have around. She peppered everyone with questions and, to his surprise, managed to get some answers even from Sten — a feat that Alistair had thought impossible to accomplish. In the short time since she joined them, Alistair came to care for her, and he _still didn’t know her name, damn it._

Zevran’s incessant flirting was the source of his headaches. The elf even made indecent remarks to Alistair himself, making him deeply uncomfortable. It wouldn’t do for a good leader to be seen blushing like a virgin in a brothel every time one of his men talked to him, so Alistair figured that prolonged exposure to Zevran’s brand of flirty should desensitise him and started working on building a tolerance. So far it bore no fruit, but it did keep the assassin from pestering their dwarf.

Not that she minded his company, quite the opposite. More than once, Alistair heard her flirting right back, and that was the reason for worry. What if Zevran wasn’t sincere? What if she fell for him, only for Zevran to break her heart? It was maddening. At least, Alistair wasn’t worried about him killing her, his contract being for Alistair only. And Zevran flirted with Leliana, too. And worse, it looked like she, too, enjoyed talking with him! What was it with that elf that women liked so much? At least, his conversations with Morrigan were something worth overhearing.

Then, there was Sten, with whom he managed to make some progress toward respect, or so Alistair hoped. It was almost impossible to tell what the Qunari was thinking, but the slight decrease of criticism gave Alistair a slim hope. Who knew cookies could build a bridge between races?

Wynne regularly came to him give advice. On _being a Warden_. When she first approached him with this topic, Alistair wanted to laugh and then maybe cry for a short while, it had just made him so unbelievably sad. The last Warden in Ferelden with a mighty cause and no army, the leader of a small rag-tag company, listening to a mage of the Circle on how to do his duty because everyone else who could have given him such advice lay dead on the battlefield at Ostagar, their corpses mutilated by the darkspawn.

Wynne meant well, but she was preaching about duty to a person whose Order greeted with the possibility of sacrifice at Joining. He lived by their motto. Victory, vigilance, sacrifice weren’t just empty words engraved on his shield. So no, her words weren’t helpful. And while Wynne’s concern was touching, Alistair would have preferred if she’d kept it to herself. And maybe offered to darn his socks instead. Those Maker damned things kept on tearing at the heels.

And Morrigan? The less was said about that harpy, the better. Early on, Alistair had decided to trust her not to send a harmful spell at his unprotected back until he found a way to kill the Archdemon, and that was good enough for him.

Back in the here and now, Alistair said, “I’m sorry. It was never my intention to make you feel like I have forgotten about you. It’s just…” he trailed off, sighed. “I will try to never do it again, and if I do, you have my permission to wallop me upside the head with a ladle. I always hated it when sister Marian did it at the Chantry.”

That brought a smile back to Leliana’s face. “Did you sneak into the kitchen often?”

“Maybe,” Alistair drawled, “but only because the prayers always made me so hungry, I couldn’t wait for dinner. Don’t they have the same effect on you?”

“No, usually not,” she said, laughter in her voice.

“Strange. I always thought it’s like that for everyone and that sister Marian just didn’t want to cook more. She was a very lazy old woman, you know.”

The topic shifted to the Chantry and their respective times there, and once again, Alistair thought that it wasn’t quite the right moment.

* * *

After dealing with Weylon, Brother Genitivi’s fake assistant, Alistair gave the group free time to run their personal errands and, once alone, went to meet his sister. That clearly was a mistake. Not the alone part, though that too wasn’t the best choice — he’d have liked some emotional support. Dog was trying his best to commiserate with him, but whining wasn’t on quite the same level as human speech.

He shouldn’t have searched for her at all. It was better when Alistair could have dreams of a family. Now the reality crushed those dreams to dust. _Maybe it’s better this way._ If he died in the Blight, and chances were good that he wouldn’t survive the final battle, there would be one person less to suffer from his loss.

Miserable and in need of a distraction, Alistair wandered the streets. The ornate sign of Wonders of Thedas promised a fitting place to find something else to occupy his mind.

* * *

“Hey, check this out.” Natia held an apprentice robe to herself, the hem lying on the floor, and swayed her hips from side to side. “How do I look?”

“You, my dear woman, are gorgeous in every piece of clothing that you deem worthy to touch your lovely body,” Zevran said, giving her an appreciating look.

“Why, thank you, Zevran.” Still holding the robe, she curtsied with an exaggerated coyness. “When our great adventure is over, you can offer your sartorial expertise to the ladies of high society. They’d pay you handsomely just to hear you compliment their garments.”

“Hmm… A tempting thought—” A heavily armoured body walked from around the corner and straight into Zevran’s back, sending him staggering.

“I’m so sorry, I wasn’t looking,” the body said in Alistair’s voice as Zevran restored his equilibrium. “Oh, hello.”

“No lasting harm done, my friend.” Zevran paused to take in Alistair’s appearance. “Although if you want to make it better, as they say, I can think of a pleasurable way for you to do so,” he finished with a wink.

“Um.” 

_And here is the blush again,_ Natia though fondly _._ Alistair couldn’t spend five minutes in Zevran’s company without turning scarlet. 

“I think my sincere apology is more than enough.”

_Clever, perceptive elf,_ Natia thought with no small amount of admiration. Alistair looked like someone had kicked his puppy, but Dog would have simply gnawed the offender’s leg off if that was the case, so it must have been something else that plagued on his mind, and Zevran’s words provided a wonderful distraction. _Speaking of puppies… Where’s—_

As if summoned by her thought, Dog bounced from the main area of the shop and barrelled into his owner in much the same way Alistair did with Zevran, only at a higher speed. If not for Zevran’s quick reflexes, their esteemed leader would have stumbled right into Natia and then into the mirror behind her back.

“Thanks,” he said to the elf with a rueful half-grin. “Looks like the Maker saw fit to dole out punishment without delay.”

“My pleasure.” Zevran bowed, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “As I was saying” — he gestured at Natia — “you will look absolutely fetching in this robe. Don’t you agree, Alistair?”

Alistair looked at her. “I…” His face went through a series of complicated expressions before settling on an amused smile. “You do. If there were such cute mages at the Circle, I might have thought twice about leaving the Templars.”

“You think I’m cute? Aw, thanks!” Natia laughed as his blush that had only started to abate crept back in full force. “But then you’d be a tin can, and they are” — she scrunched up her nose — “even less fun than the No-Fun Giant.”

Alistair smiled. This nickname, like Zevran’s flirting, never ceased to provoke a reaction. Natia had made sure to never use it when the Qunari could overhear her — she was still testing the waters, studying his temper — but sometimes she wondered what Sten’s answer would be were she to say that to his face. Well, she wasn’t _that_ curious or suicidal.

“You know, my dear, you might have a practical use for it,” Zevran said, bringing her attention back. He winked and, turning to Alistair, asked, “Do you, by chance, happen to have your old Templar armour?”

Alistair frowned, rightfully suspecting a trick, but answered anyway, “Yes. Why do you want to know?”

Zevran clasped his hands. “Excellent! Then the two of you can enact a Stern Templar and a Naughty Mage scenario.”

His ears flaming, Alistair croaked, “Why would I do that?”

“Role-playing is a very simple way to spice up any relationship,” Zevran said, making it clear he thought it should have been obvious and that he found it surprising Alistair even had to ask. “And fulfilling a fantasy can be, ah, _rewarding_.”

Alistair just stared, looking uncomfortable and like he wanted the ground to open up and hide him from the leering elf, or so it seemed to Natia.

“Why, you never thought about it when you were training to become a Templar? Just imagine: a silent corridor, and you are standing guard. It is late, nothing’s going on, so you are bored…” Zevran paused to gauge their reaction. Natia worked very hard at suppressing her grin while Alistair leant forward, hooked on the tale against his will.

Zevran continued, “And then, at the very edge of your hearing, a whisper. As quietly as you can manage in that clunky full plate armour, you go to investigate. And oh! A beautiful mage sneaked into the library to get a book — an Antivan novel, of course, full of forbidden love and passion. They just don’t write anything decent in Orlais these days, and any book from Tevinter is simply _awful_ — but it is after curfew, and she says” — Zevran’s voice became breathy and took on a higher pitch, somehow not sounding ridiculous at all — “‘Please, ser Templar, don’t tell anyone you saw me here! I will do _anything_ you want!’” He paused again, then added in his regular tone, “And then… You make love to her in an alcove behind a bookcase. The skirt in the Templar armour is very convenient, is it not?” Raising his eyebrows, Zevran finished with a question, “So, Warden, haven’t you ever thought of that on lonely nights when the lights were out?”

His face now resembling an overripe tomato, Alistair swallowed. “Uh-huh, not happening. I’m not answering _that_.”

“Quite a fantasy, Zev,” Natia said, grinning. “Put a lot of thought into it, did ya?”

“I like to think it has some ground in reality. Isn’t it what Templars usually do with mages in those big, cold towers of theirs?” Zevran asked.

Natia shook her head. “Not while we were there. The Circle was chock-full of abominations and desire demons.”

“A desire demon comes to a Templar as a naughty mage…” A thoughtful look on his face, Zevran considered it. “Even better! Warden, would you be so kind as to lend me that armour?” Turning to Natia, he smiled. “Now, my dear, you simply must buy this robe, and I will teach you how to play this game properly.”

“Wynne!” Alistair blurted.

They turned to look at him, Zevran with amusement and Natia with surprise at the sudden exclamation. “What about her?” she asked.

“We need to find Wynne! I promised to…” Alistair’s gaze was running over different things in the room in a chaotic dance, making Natia wonder how he wasn’t dizzy. “Help carry her books! Yes, books. Boring, dry books with nothing exciting inside.” He nodded to himself. “She is waiting for us. No time for shopping.” Pulling the robe out of her hands, Alistair threw it on the stand. Natia guessed he would have wrested it from her were her grip a bit stronger.

“Let’s go,” he said to Dog, and with a steady hand on her arm, Alistair dragged very perplexed Natia outside.

Laughing, Zevran followed.

* * *

_This elf is a menace,_ Alistair thought later. He needed to keep a better eye on him. Yes, definitely. What was he thinking, making such _indecent_ offers to cute little dwarves? It wasn’t right.

They didn’t find Wynne in the tavern, of course, because it was several hours too early and also because they agreed to meet at the market. Alistair felt like a fool looking around, exaggeratedly eager to find the old mage. He was sure, Zevran was onto him — the elf was smirking in a _knowing_ manner — but he kept with the act.

“Our healer must have found a better way to entertain herself than some dusty old books,” Zevran said finally. “Perhaps we should find our own, too?”

Not wanting any more suggestions, Alistair said, “A job. We need a job.” 

“Ah, what a coincidence!” Zevran’s face brightened with delight. “How fortunate you’d say that because I just so happen to have an offer lined up, and wouldn’t you know, it leads to the best place in Denerim.”

“The palace?” Alistair asked, raising a brow. “Because if so, I’m not going there.”

“Better than the palace.” Zevran smirked. Again.

The dwarf appeared at Alistair’s side, and when had she slipped away exactly?

“I’ve got an interesting offer.” She waved a folded vellum sheet in front of him. “Says the employer needs help solving a problem. It’s all clandestine and mysterious. Should be fun.”

Alistair read the note. It did sound interesting, and the stated reward was quite handsome. “All right, I’ll ask the barkeep to arrange the meeting tonight, and then we will look into the job Zevran was talking about.”

* * *

“A brothel?” Alistair stared at Zevran, absolutely incredulous. The elf was completely unrepentant.

The Pearl was, indeed, one of the most famous places in Denerim. Alistair hadn’t been there himself, but he had heard about it. A lot.

“Of course, it is a brothel. Why do I even ask?” He shook his head and, sighing, opened the door.

* * *

After dealing with the rowdy mercenaries — the White Falcons, what a ridiculous name — and politely declining madam Sanga’s generous offer of a night with any of her workers — _‘any, my dear, you can even choose several’_ — Alistair was convinced that his damned blush had finally taken a permanent residence on his face. Zevran and the dwarf’s teasing didn’t help any. 

They had collected the payment from a harried Sergeant and came to the market just in time for the meeting with the rest of their company. Wynne and Leliana were already waiting. As Alistair walked closer, he saw Leliana showing Wynne what looked like a picture. Cheeks and ears still flaming, Alistair was unbelievably grateful to have something else to focus on.

“What’s this?” he asked, stopping next to her.

Leliana glanced up, and her blue eyes widened. “You didn’t see these posters?” She held a stack of sheets, a rough sketch of a face that could give small children nightmares on top. It had ‘Wanted for Treason’ and ‘Grey Warden’ scrawled underneath. “They are all over Denerim. It’s surprising you have missed them.”

Alistair stared at the drawing, his mouth agape. “This… This is supposed to be me.”

Craning her neck to get a look, the dwarf said, “Ancestors, you’d think the darkspawn would run away from you. And I wondered why we haven’t met any of them so far.”

“My teeth aren’t crooked, and they are _not_ hanging out of my mouth.” Even though Alistair knew he should be happy about it, he found the artist’s ridiculously inaccurate rendition upsetting, but— “At least, they got my chin right.”

“You have a ransom on your head, Warden,” Wynne said with reproach. “Be glad you are unrecognisable.”

Taking the entire stack from his hands, the dwarf flipped through them. “Oh, it gets better!” she said, an unabashed glee in her tone. “They also drew Morrigan.” 

That lifted Alistair’s mood in an instant. He took a closer look. Maybe this artist wasn’t so bad after all… “Hah! _Her_ I can recognise! Think I will save it—”

“What is going on here?” came the witch’s voice, colder than usual, and typically it could freeze a fly mid-flight.

“First Day came earlier this year” — Alistair turned to her, grinning with all his teeth — “and I got your picture as a present.”


	4. Chapter 4

For the evening meeting, Alistair took Wynne, Zevran, and Leliana with him — he didn’t count Dog, who always followed him everywhere — leaving Sten, Morrigan and the dwarf to watch the doors in case it was an ambush. Alistair didn’t think it was, but, as Wynne pointed out, there was a ransom on his head.

The woman sitting at the table of the tavern’s private room looked up as they approached, and the candlelight spotlighted a part of her face not hidden by the hood. Her eyes remained in the shadows. A black mabari war hound, grey warpaint decorating his sides, lay at her feet.

“Greetings,” she said in a melodious voice. The hound sat up, giving Dog a curious look, and she placed her hand on its head, a heavy golden ring on her finger. Wynne gasped.

“Elissa Cousland, you are alive!” she said, taking several quick steps. Her arms made an aborted motion, as if Wynne wanted to hug the woman but thought better of it.

“Do I know you?” the woman, Elissa, asked. From her tone, Alistair guessed she was frowning.

“You were a young girl when I last saw you. It is no wonder that you don’t remember me. My name is Wynne” — she smiled — “though you insisted on calling me Winnie.”

“Winnie?.. Oh, it’s you! I remember now, you sang to me.” Elissa’s voice softened by the fond memories. “No other healer ever did that.” She paused, drumming her fingers on the tabletop. “But it was years ago. What give me away now?”

“Your ring is very distinguishing, dear. I saw it on your father, not to mention that it has your family crest.”

“Ah.” After a long moment of silent consideration, Elissa lowered her hood. Her face unmistakably marked her as nobility. Seeing her unblemished skin and fine features, nobody could have mistaken her for a commoner. “That makes things easier,” Elissa said, leaning back in her chair. “I need your help to infiltrate Arl Howe’s estate and kill him.” Her flat tone did not betray any emotion, and that in itself spoke volumes.

It wasn’t an unexpected turn. The letter had carefully alluded the task of eliminating a person being involved, but Alistair did not think she would be so open about discussing a murder. After dealing with Lady Isolde, he found Elissa’s plain statement refreshing, and his opinion of her climbed a notch.

Zevran was the first to regain his speech. “Pardon me, my lady, but I can’t help wondering, why? Rumour has it that marauders killed the Couslands.”

Wynne’s forehead creased, and a downturn of her lips announced her displeasure. Dog was busy sniffing Elissa’s mabari. Alistair was content to stay in the background and let others speak, for now. Besides, he, too, was interested in the answer.

“Marauders!” Elissa scoffed. “It was Arl Rendon Howe!” suddenly leaning forward, her eyes alight with fury, she all but spat his name. “He betrayed my father and turned on our family. His soldiers came when ours had already left for Ostagar and slaughtered everyone in the night, even my nephew Oren. He was six, for Maker’s sake! A lot of good men died; my mother gave her life for my escape.” Breathing hard, she finished through clenched teeth, “I want Howe’s head on a pike!”

Her pain, so vast and profound, it was almost palpable, found a deep resonance in Alistair’s soul. He understood her feelings all too well.

“All right,” he said, at last, bringing everyone’s attention to himself. “With our help, you will have it.”

* * *

Sneaking into the Arl’s estate wasn’t hard, not with a bit of planning. Promising to take care of it, Zevran had disappeared after the meeting and several hours later returned with a bag full of servant clothes. Elissa had provided the guards’ patrol routes, including those inside the estate proper, and schedules of their change — the result of weeks of stakeouts and a lot of coins poured into the right pockets.

Opting for discretion over brutal force, Alistair chose to bring only the company’s rogues with him. And so, four rogues and two warriors — Alistair himself and Dog — made their way through the building, meticulously searching for the Arl. Several times they had to kill the guards and hide their bodies, but other than that, everything was going according to plan. Until they reached Howe’s private torture chamber.

Opening the heavy door, Alistair heard a blood-curdling scream, and a strong coppery smell assaulted his nose. Throwing caution to the wind, he thundered inside, others not far behind, but Howe didn’t even notice their approach, too busy pulling a rack’s lever, stretching a young man across it farther and farther. Several other torture implements bore signs of recent use, but no other victim was in sight. Two hulking goons in bloodstained butcher aprons leant against a wall nearby, their eyes glazed as they waited for their master to tire.

“That’s sick,” Alistair muttered, wishing he’d have skipped dinner.

“Howe,” Elissa billowed, her strong voice going over the screams, while Zevran and the dwarf darted out of sight, “I wanted to give you a courtesy of a man’s death, but now I think you should die like a beast you are.”

The Arl whirled to her, and his goons, coming out of their stupor, detached themselves from the wall.

“Ah, look who has come to visit us, boys.” Howe’s nasal voice made Alistair burn with desire to add new fractures to his large hooked beak of a nose. “Bryce Cousland’s little pup, all grown up and still failing to fit into his armour. I thought Loghain made sure your family’s forgotten. Your parents died on their knees, you brother’s corpse rots at Ostagar, and his brat was burnt on a scrap heap along with his Antivan whore of a wife,” he said with relish, then his eyes narrowed. “But it seems, I have one more loose end to tie.”

“Enough talk,” Elissa snapped, voice cold and controlled, and charged at him with her sword drawn.

Keeping Howe’s goons from attacking her, Alistair and Dog took them on, with Leliana providing a long ranged support. Time blurred in a haze of thrusting, lunging, parrying, and blocking. It didn’t take him long to see to the goons’ death, and Alistair turned to check on Elissa.

She had Arl Howe on his knees, disarmed, his right arm hanging uselessly at his side.

“Guards!” he shouted, eyes darting around, but only Zevran and the dwarf walked out of the adjoined chamber.

“All dead, sicko,” the dwarf said, grimacing in disgust at his trembling form.

Elissa held her sword to the Arl’s throat, the tip barely touching his Adam’s apple. “Any last words?”

Howe’s eyes filled with rage and hatred. “Maker spit on you! I deserved more!”

“No, you didn’t,” Elissa said, her features hard, mouth forming a grim line. “My family did.” She raised her sword high — “This is for my mother” — and brought it on his broken arm. The Arl screamed in pain. “And for my father.” Another arm fell. Howe’s howl got louder. “And for Oriana.”  She exchanged her enormous greatsword for her dagger, crouched next to him, and thrust it into his guts, low beneath his armour, keeping a hand on his shoulder to prevent his falling over. His scream became a gurgle. “And this is for Oren.” Looking into his eyes, Elissa slashed Howe’s throat. Blood gushed in an arc, spraying her face and armour, but she didn’t let go until the last flicker of life snuffed out.

A heavy silence fell over the chamber as she stood up. Without support, the Arl crumbled onto the dirty floor, his body a heap of severed limbs. Elissa blinked as if not sure what to do next, but then she squared her shoulders. Spitting on his corpse, she turned her back on it. 

“We are done here.”

* * *

Before leaving, they released all prisoners from the dungeons. That sick bastard Howe kept them in only their smallclothes, and Alistair and his companions had to strip the dead guards. Even bloody and cut armour was better than nothing at all against the dungeons’ chill.

One of the biggest surprises was finding a Warden locked up in a private cell, a good distance away from the rest of them. Alistair sensed his presence even before he walked into the room. His appearance created a distraction, which the Warden used to kill the guard standing near the bars. The body disappeared, and soon the Warden, dressed in the guard’s armour, walked out, saying, “I thank you for—” He stopped when he saw who came to his rescue, his eyes going wide. “Alistair? Is that you?”

“Who…” Alistair frowned, digging into his memory. “Wait, I know you. You were at my Joining, a Warden from Orlais.”

“Riordan from Jader —” the man nodded “— but born and bred in Highever and glad to be home.” Not having spent long in Howe’s dubious hospitality, Riordan wasn’t as gaunt as the others, but he would have benefitted from some healing.

After however many months of torture and malnutrition, many of the prisoners were in no condition to escape by themselves, and Alistair regretted not bringing Wynne with them, a skilled healer could do more than a mere potion. Not that even she would have done much, if anything, for the templar suffering from lyrium withdrawal. He could only mutter incomprehensible words, but with some difficulty, Elissa recognised him as Bann of Walking Sea’s brother, and the young man they had freed from the rack turned out to be Bann of the Dragon Peak’ son, Oswyn.

“I knew that Howe was power hungry, but Loghain… He must have lost his mind to allow any of it,” Elissa said quietly.

“He abandoned our king to die,” Alistair replied, voice low and angry. “I won’t put anything past him.”

While rogues scouted ahead, Alistair, Elissa, and Riordan distributed healing poultices and led the former prisoners outside as quietly as they could. Fortunately for all involved, that went without any complications.

Back at the tavern, Wynne did what she could to heal their wounds, but their recovery would take a long time. Leliana sent errand boys to their relatives if they had any, and by morning, families were reunited. Both Banns Alfstanna and Sighard swore to repay Alistair for his help. When Alistair would go against Loghain, they promised to back his claims.

Before departing, Bann Sighard gave Alistair a long look, his eyes narrowed and a slight frown creased his forehead.

“You remind me of someone,” he said slowly. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say… Ah. But of course!” Expression clearing, his eyebrows flew up. “You, Warden, look remarkably like our lost king.”

Caught off guard, Alistair didn’t know what to say, but it turned out, his answer was unnecessary.

Leaning toward him, the old man put a hand on Alistair’s arm and said with significance, “If it ever comes to that, you will have my vote.”

The throne was the last place he ever wanted to park his backside, but it was not the time or place to explain that, so Alistair just nodded and voiced his thanks.

“What was that about?” the dwarf asked.

“It appears, our dear Warden has some claim on this country,” Zevran answered, giving Alistair a speculative look.

_Great._ Apparently, they _both_ had overheard Bann Sighard. Sometimes Alistair forgot how exasperating rogues could be.

“Care to share with your faithful followers?” Zevran raised a curious brow.

_Looks like the cat is out of the bag._ It didn’t upset him, however. Alistair liked to think he knew them well enough by now to trust that it wouldn’t change their opinion of him. Alistair sighed.

“Only if you promise not to bow or anything like that.”

* * *

“You have avenged you family,” Alistair said to Elissa before her departure. “Does it… make it easier?” He could have phrased it better, but Alistair knew she understood what he was really asking. He was aware that killing Loghain wouldn’t bring anyone back, but he hoped that it would make him feel better.

For a long moment, she stayed silent, then, “No.” She swallowed. Allowing herself a brief moment of vulnerability, Elissa looked lost and hurting. Then she visibly put herself together. Straightening her back, she looked him in the eyes and said, “But now Howe can’t hurt anyone else.”

That made sense, and so Alistair nodded. “What are you planning to do now?”

“Lay low, for the time being, least Loghain decides to tie Howe’s loose ends. I have distant relatives in the Bannorn, and my father had allies whom I can trust.” Elissa glanced over his shoulder, then back at him. “I need to search for my brother, Fergus. I won’t believe he is dead until I see his body. In time, I will return home and rebuild Highever.” She pulled her hood up, obscuring her face in its shadow. “Thank you, Warden. You have been a good friend in this trying time. I won’t forget it. If you ever need my help, leave a message with the barkeep, and I will come to your aid.”

She embraced Wynne, nodded to others, and slipped out of the room.

“Remarkable woman, isn’t she?” Zevran said, watching her go, standing next to Alistair. His voice sounded wistful.

“Yes.” Alistair nodded. “A true Fereldan Lady.”

* * *

Being in the company of another Warden again was nice. The constant sense of awareness of his whereabouts gave Alistair stability, a link to the Order. As Senior Warden from Orlais, not only Riordan’s knowledge was a lot vaster, but he also knew Duncan, had been his friend for years. It felt good to know someone else was mourning his mentor, sharing his grief, Alistair thought. They were sitting in the main room of the tavern, waiting for their meal to arrive. Just the two of them, the first to wake up.

After the night and the morning they had, Alistair reflected, it was surprising he was able to pull himself out of bed at all. The low hum of conversations all around them provided a cover for sensitive topics, and so he wasn’t surprised when Riordan leant forward and licked his lips, preparing to speak. The words, however, were nothing like what he expected.

“Duncan was close to his Calling,” Riordan said quietly.

“What?!” Alistair exclaimed, drawing the attention of a couple at the next table. Hunching his shoulders, he gave them a sullen look until the younger of the two men huffed and turned back to his plate, his lips pursed. His companion followed suit. Cowed, Alistair decided. Returning his attention to Riordan, he asked in an angry whisper, “Why didn’t he say anything?”

Riordan exhaled, loudly. He glanced at his intertwined fingers; Alistair’s gaze followed: his right thumb was running over a long white scar that went along the back of his left hand, a slow back and forth motion. Their eyes met.

“The Calling changes you.” Riordan let the sentence hang in the air between them, a grave promise of things to come, then he continued. “I have seen it happened before. Even the most level-headed Wardens acted irrationally at the end. As far as I can guess, Duncan wanted to go out in a battle before the Song became too strong to resist.” His stoic facade cracked, his shoulders dropped, and suddenly, Riordan looked tired and sad. “In his last letter, where Duncan requested reinforcement, he wrote that he felt he didn’t have much time.”

“That—” His throat constricted, and Alistair swallowed.  This knowledge didn’t make Duncan’s death right, but it made it more bearable.  He thought about Duncan’s erratic behaviour just before Ostagar, his sudden mood swings and flares of temper. “If that is so, then he got his wish granted. He died fighting an ogre.”

A hurried waitress brought food and drinks, and they raised their tankards in honour of their fallen brothers.

“Hey, Warden, I’ve something to show you,” the dwarf said, coming to join them at the table. And, of course, both of them turned to her, waiting for an elaboration. She laughed, and the sound broke the sober mood. “Oh, man, this is something.” Grinning, she stole Alistair’s stuffed bread and cut it in half. “Sorry, Riordan, but I was talking to blondie here. You should probably get used to it — everybody and their bronto calls him that.”

“I have a name, you know,” Alistair grumbled, taking half of his bread back.

“Really? I thought your name _was_ Warden. Strange name for sure, but with you, surfacers, ya never know.” Yawning, she expropriated his half-full tankard. “You never make a lot of sodding sense.” She took a deep pull of the ale.

“Now” — Alistair pointed at her with his bread, sending crumbs flying — “you are just messing with me.”

She put the tankard down, raised an eyebrow. “Am I?”

“Yes, I’m pretty sure you are.”

She smirked at him and said nothing.

“All right.” Giving up on the answer, Alistair grabbed his tankard and, finding it empty, gestured to their waitress for a refill. “What did you want to show me?”

“Oh, right.” Digging into her pocket, she pulled out a scroll and plopped it on the table before Alistair. “Take a look at this.”

“This is the Grey Warden’s insignia,” he said.

“Kinda figured it out myself. What with the griffon and all.”

Riordan, who before now was silently watching their interaction with a slight smile on his face, leant forward. His expression grew serious. “This isn’t the documents I had on me when I was meeting with Loghain. I wonder… Hm…” Glancing up, he said, “It’s encoded but I can decipher it,” and, taking hold of the document, he was lost for the world. 

“Where did you find it?” Alistair asked.

“At that rich perv’s estate.”

Alistair’s eyes widened in surprise. “Howe had this? But why?”

She shrugged. “Beats me.”

“Wait, when did you even find the time to snoop around?”

She gave him an unimpressed look. “You didn’t think I’d pass up such golden opportunity, did ya?”

In actuality, Alistair hadn’t thought about it at all. “Guess not.”

“Professional thief here, hello.” She waved at him and, with a wink, stole Riordan’s ale.

Alistair shook his head, smiling. He didn’t mind her actions. Busy with the scroll as he was, Riordan wasn’t drinking it anyway.

* * *

The scroll held information of the Grey Warden’s vault here, in Denerim. They checked it before leaving the city.

“Finally, a bit of luck. Thank the Maker,” Alistair said, looking at a silver chalice and a small opaque vial that was, as Riordan had explained to him, the most crucial ingredient for the Joining.

* * *

The lead they had found in Brother Genitivi’s house went up to the mountains, to a small village called Haven. After consulting with a map, Alistair decided to make it their next destination, then visit the dwarven kingdom before Redcliffe. Orzammar lay too close to Haven for them to make the trip twice.

“Our troops are stationed at the border,” Riordan said earlier, staring at the map as well. “They are waiting for my word to move, but I don’t trust letters to reach them. It will be winter when I get to the mountains, and since Gherlen’s Pass is the only available road for that weather, I’m coming with you, at least, for a part of the way. If you will accept me.”

“I will be honoured to fight at your side, brother,” Alistair replied, inclining his head and touching his closed fist to his heart in respect. To his pleasure, Riordan returned the gesture.

Going to Haven first wasn’t that much of a detour, Alistair reasoned, and if it meant keeping Riordan’s company longer, well, so much the better. In the evening before their departure, he thought about asking him to take the leadership. Alistair almost said it, going so far as to sit beside the man and open his mouth… But these people had followed _him_ , trusted _him_ , and Duncan had entrusted the treaties _to_ _him_ believing that Alistair could keep them safe. It didn’t feel right to try pawning off this responsibility, so in the end, he bit down on his lip, inadvertently drawing blood, and said nothing.

* * *

Travelling with Riordan made things different, easier and harder at the same time. As fellow Warden, he understood Alistair better than anyone else and shared the duty of constantly sensing for the darkspawn. However, his presence also had unforeseen disadvantages. For one thing, Alistair hadn’t expected Leliana to spend so much time talking to the other Warden.

“What can they talk about for so long?” Alistair muttered, not realising he had said it aloud until Zevran startled him offering an answer.

“Orlesian politics. I imagine, Leliana misses the court.” Zevran gave him a sly look. “You can join them, too.”

Alistair chewed on the inside of his lower lip, thinking. “Doesn’t look like they need my opinion,” he said eventually. He didn’t know anything about that topic. Or anything related to any politics, to be honest.

“Warden —” Zevran gasped in mock surprise “— are you telling me you are afraid of a little competition?”

“What? Of course, not!” Alistair denied though the uncertainty of his voice belied his words. “…Should I be?”

Zevran raised a brow. “Why don’t you go there and find out?”

“I… Fine. Always wanted to hear about Orlesian balls,” Alistair said in a tone that implied he’d rather gnaw his own arm off and moved toward them, already regretting this decision, but—

“The three of them together, relaxed and bathed in a warm glow of the firelight,” their dwarf’s voice said, and Alistair slowed down. “Admit it, you just want the visual.”

“Ah, you know me too well, my dear.” Zevran laughed. “Two such distinguished men, I can’t help but think of the fabled warden stamina…”

Stumbling over nothing, Alistair cursed his curiosity and picked up speed, his ears flaming brighter than Andraste’s pyre. Now _he_ couldn’t help but think of… with Riordan and Leliana… _Damn that elf!_ _Politics! Dull old nobles. Morrigan. Toads with warts…_ Next, Alistair pictured Flemeth astride the Archdemon. _Anything_ to erase that mental image.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, look — an update!

Alistair was dreaming. He knew it because he was watching the Archdemon, backlit by the roiling green sky, beat its massive scaly wings. For a moment, it paused and, Alistair could have sworn, looked right at him, into his very soul. The sensation made him want to crawl out of his skin. The Archdemon roared, and the sound of its fury, deafening and terrifying, shook the ground.

Alistair sat up, feeling the tainted creatures nearby — the itch under his skin was rapidly intensifying. His fingers closed over the hilt of his sword even before Alistair opened his eyes.

“Darkspawn,” Riordan shouted, pushing him with a hand on Alistair’s shoulder to get moving just as the first telltale shrieks and guttural cries reached his hearing range.

* * *

Though the darkspawn had found them with their pants down, the fight didn’t last long. While Alistair dove into battle, destroying enemies with ruthless abandon, losing himself in the swings, parries, and shieldwork, irritated mages flung spells with brutal efficiency that he wasn’t about to forget anytime soon.

Afterwards, they had to march a substantial distance away from the slain creatures. Even if the stench of their burning corpses wasn’t so repulsive, the darkspawn’s hive mind made staying impossible: what one knew, all the others did, too. Alistair couldn’t take the risk of this being just a scouting group.

His clothes damp with sweat, Alistair called for a stop at the first half-decent clearing just off the road. Clouds enveloped the sky, and only the light coming from their mages’ staves allowed to pitch tents more or less straight. Alistair didn’t bother with his own, opting to place his bedroll on the ground near the fire and sprawl on top, not caring about the stains the darkspawn blood would undoubtedly leave behind. He would pay for it later when the ichor had set in, Alistair knew, but for now, he felt contented as he was — dirty and covered in repulsive substances.

“Did you see it, too?” he asked Riordan.

The older man looked up, gaze questioning and hands never stopping running a dark cloth over his blade, and Alistair elaborated, “The Archdemon.”

“Yes,” Riordan said, his mouth — a tight line. “And it saw us.”

Alistair nodded, his suspicion confirmed. “That’s what Duncan said. We sense them, and they sense us, but I’ve never thought the blasted Archdemon would stare at me from across the Fade.” He shook his head and suppressed a shudder. “That was creepy. I’m going to sleep with Dog from now on.” Then he raised his voice for the group at large. “Double up the night watch.”

Alistair doubted anyone would be getting any sleep tonight.

* * *

All the following week, the Imperial Highway remained empty. Not even a stray bandit tried his luck against their group, and, seeing as they had never lacked in hostile lowlife before, that was unusual, as if the nighttime attack on the camp exhausted the number of  available foes. Often, Alistair felt an itch at the back of his neck, his hair stood on ends, but when he discreetly glanced around, no one was watching him. He kept expecting the repeat of the nighttime attack, or a sudden ambush, people hiding in dense vegetation alongside the road. A deep ache came to live between his shoulder blades, and a throbbing pain in his temples became a loyal companion.

Alistair was just about ready to slash at the bushes in hopes of ousting some dangerous beast lying in wait when a dwarven merchant happened upon them, his cart loaded with piles and crates of all kinds of merchandise. Alistair could have wept for joy. Instead, he jumped at the chance to replenish his stock of necessary supplies (cheese not the last among them). And then the merchant offered a control rod for a golem. It was like the Maker himself had answered Alistair’s prayers.

Several days later, walking down the ever so slightly narrowing road to Honnleath, Alistair was bouncing like a kid at a village fair.

“A golem!” He barely kept himself from rubbing his hands in anticipation though a huge grin still made it to his face. “I’ve never seen one before.”

“I’ve seen them,” the dwarf said.

At this point, Alistair doubted that he would ever be able to think of her any other way. In his mind, she was _the dwarf,_ in the same way as Morrigan was _the harpy_ , and Wynne — _the healer_.

“They are working in Orzammar’s boiler room.” The dwarf yawned and glanced at the sky.

Alistair looked at her with curiosity. “What were you doing in the boiler room?”

She kept her gaze on the distant horizon. “Dumping black dye into the vat with some noble’s clothes.” As a mischievous smirk tugged the corners of her lips up, her eyes regained focus. She started to turn to Alistair, saying, “That was a fun job. Leske—”

“Warden,” Sten interrupted, much to Alistair’s irritation. The dwarf rarely did talk about the people in her life, and Alistair wanted to hear more.

“What is it, Sten?” Alistair said, not bothering to hide his emotions, his voice sharp as a  silverite blade.

Unfazed, Sten continued, a permanent scowl etched into his stony face, “When will we fight the darkspawn? All you have us do is walk around and solve insignificant problems that have no bearing on the Blight, and now you are wasting time on nothing more than a toy. You said the darkspawn are near, but there is no one around. I am tired of waiting.”

_This is it,_ Alistair thought, giddy and spoiling for a fight. The tipping point he was expecting, the inevitable confrontation. “Are you—” he started, but the itching under his skin and at the base of his skull that was steadily growing stronger for the last half an hour made him stop. In a quick motion, he unsheathed his sword, just as Sten went for his weapon. Glancing at Riordan, Alistair saw him doing the same.

“To answer your question, Sten, we are going to fight them now. Everyone get ready!”

Ten minutes later, they reached Honnleath and found it overrun by the blighted creatures. 

* * *

Thinking about golems or playing with his figurines during childhood (and later, but he’d rather fight the Archdemon alone and unarmed than admit to it to anyone), Alistair always imagined them to be, well, soulless. A mindless animated rock pile that would crush anyone you wish if so commanded. Shale was nothing of these things.

True, she was made of rock, but that was where the similarities ended. She was a _person_. A very cranky, opinionated person with a vendetta against birds that agreed to crush his enemies when Alistair politely offered her to join his company. She also persisted with calling everyone It.

The control rod was broken, but even if it had worked, Alistair couldn’t imagine her not having a personality.

_Maker, how is this my life?_ he wondered, listening to Shale asking Zevran about him being a crow. Still, Alistair liked her. And the way she smashed the darkspawn was simply awesome.

* * *

“May I give you advice, my friend?” Zevran said, his voice hushed in deference to the hour.

It was their turn to keep watch, and the night, quiet and cold, was beginning to surrender its reign to a freezing morning. Alistair put a stick he was idly twirling into the fire and turned to face his companion, not expecting anything good. With Zevran, their talks usually were either embarrassing or entertaining (and if Alistair was honest, often it was both at the same time), and he didn’t have high hopes for the later. “All right, I will bite. What is it?”

Uncharacteristically serious, Zevran made sure their eyes had met before answering, “Trying to sit on two chairs only leads to falling on the floor.”

That wasn’t something Alistair had ever expected to hear, especially not in such a grave tone. “What do you mean?” he asked, a slight frown pulling at his brows.

Zevran sighed. “You need to decide whom you want, and soon. They won’t wait forever, and you might end up with nothing.” Before Alistair could ask what did _that_ mean, Zevran stood up and stretched, spine popping.

“Ah, my dear Warden, have no fear —” he smirked “— I am always willing to warm your bed,  should you need me . I’m going to make sure nothing is sneaking up on us, yes? If you will excuse me, Warden.”

Zevran made two quick, soundless steps, moving with enviable ease after hours of sitting still, and the darkness swallowed his figure.

“That was helpful,” Alistair muttered, feeling completely at sea. A horrifying thought crept into his mind, _He didn’t mean Morrigan, right?!_

* * *

Haven had given Alistair the creeps from the moment he stepped foot into the village. As Zevran said, it was too quiet, unnaturally so. After the disaster in Redcliffe, Alistair was expecting blood mages and human sacrifices, thus finding a bloody altar was just par for the course. At this point, crazed cultists were as good an explanation as any.

The Temple of Sacred Ashes, however, was a breathtaking revelation. Somehow, against all hope, he didn’t think they would actually find it.

* * *

The dragonlings were taking a bit of work to hack through, mainly because of their sheer amount, and for the first time she could remember, Natia wished she to be as tall as a Qunari. _Sten_ wasn’t at risk of being trampled by a pack of angry fire-breathing critters.

A huge stone fist sent three lizards flying, giving her an opening to slip through. “Thanks, Shale!”

Another dragonling died under a stone foot. “It can thank me by not giving me any more birds.”

“But you _like_ to crush them!” Natia protested.

“I would prefer not to be reminded of my tormentors.”

Sliding a dagger into the slightly less thick hide on a dragonling’s belly while it was trying to melt Shale, Natia grunted, “How about instead I find you something pretty to wear?”

“I do not require clothes,” Shale said, dry as the rock she was made of.

The image of Shale in a frilly dress came unbidden, and Natia snorted. “Trust me, I know just the thing you will like,” she said, thinking of all possible places to _visit_ when they reach Orzammar.

* * *

Walking the Gauntlet had proved that not all Alistair’s time in the Chantry was completely pointless. The sisters had managed to put at least _some_ knowledge into his head, and so Alistair solved the spirits’ riddles without asking for help.  The whole experience felt like a dream. He kept expecting a horde of darkspawn to attack from nowhere. Ever since joining the Order, Alistair dreamt only of them.

Andraste’s ashes were as real as they could be, and proving his worth gave Alistair hope that the Holy Bride might approve of him. Walking through the fire that cut the room in two, naked and shivering even as the flames licked his skin, Alistair felt a presence: something light had embraced him and kept him from harm. He imagined that was how a mother’s hug felt.

The chamber was pristine, untouched by time. Not a spec of dust dared to disturb Andraste’s final resting place. Beside the urn lay a spray of Prophet’s Laurel, fresh as the day it was cut, preserved for eternity. Kneeling, Alistair bowed his head and put a hand over his heart. Then, he prayed.

_You saved Ferelden once. Now, it is our turn._

* * *

They made camp not far from the platform where they fought the fake Andraste. Its massive body blotted a good part of the evening sky; its scales glinted in the last rays of the dying sun.

“We killed a high dragon,” the dwarf said, staring at the corpse. The expression on her face was one of  disbelief and wonder.

“We have _also_ spoken with Maferath’s and Shartan’s spirits and found the Holy Prophet’s ashes, and that’s what you choose to focus at?” Alistair had to admit, seeing a high dragon so close was both thrilling and terrifying, even if he wasn’t gushing over it like she did. He had an image to maintain.

The dwarf turned to him and shrugged. “You surfacers burn your dead all the time, nothing new about that, and spirits? What's so impressive about them? Nothing, that's what. But a high dragon!..” Her voice trailed off, sliding into a breathy sigh. “Do you know how much its teeth cost? And scales? I know people who will pay a _fortune!”_

“Why? What’s so valuable in dragon’s teeth? It’s just _teeth_.”

“It’s a potion ingredient.” Zevran landed next to the dwarf, holding two bowls with stew, steam rising above them. Thanks to the dragon, they had a lot of fresh meat. He presented the dwarf with one of the bowls, which she took with a quick upturn of her lips.

“A very rare one, as you can imagine,” Zevran continued. “And a dragon’s heart is… simply priceless. In Antiva, nobles would kill for that. Well, not themselves, I should say.” He smirked. “I once stole a pinch of dried dragon’s heartstring. The contract was paid handsomely.”

“I thought the Crows work only as assassins,” Alistair said. His stomach growled as the elf spooned his stew. The chunks of meat nesting among pieces of tulips, carrots, and potatoes looked juicy and soft. He swallowed.  
Zevran raised his eyebrows. “Oh, did I forgot to mention that I killed its previous owner? How remiss of me.”

“Um-hum.” Maker, but cooked dragon smelled _good_. “And what’s so special about its heart?”

“That, my dear Warden, is the beauty of it. A dragon’s heart is _ab-so-lutely_ useless.” Zevran chuckled. “But that’s not what the rumour would lead you to believe, oh, no.” He shook his spoon for emphasis. “Many a lady would pay her last Andris to prolong her youth given a chance, but only the wealthiest and well-connected can afford the Miracle Draught.” He paused to chew a  large piece of meat thoroughly. Alistair’s mouth watered.

“It is said to reverse time — not literally, of course, in a figurative sense,” Zevran continued. “Why, I heard Empress Celine’s marvellously good looks are the result of that draught.” He paused. “Which is, of course, nonsense. The only part of a dragon that has any magical properties is its scales. Or is it parts? Hmm…” With a thoughtful look, Zevran returned to eating.

“Really,” Alistair drawled. “And how do you know that? Did they teach you potion making during assassin training?”

The dwarf was silent for so long, Alistair thought she had fallen asleep sitting, and so her snort startled him. “What?”

“Where do you think he obtains his poisons?” she asked.

“From an apothecary?”

“Ah, Warden —” Zevran sighed “— if I did that, I wouldn’t know if they were tampered with. Imagine adding two parts of monkshood to a Quiet Death.” He tsked. “The poison would look the same, and it doesn’t have a smell. The only difference is, instead of a quiet death, you’d give the unfortunate soul a very prolonged suffering.”

“Oh. I didn’t think about that.”

“And that is why you would make a terrible assassin, my friend. Good thing you have me to quietly dispose of your political enemies, sí?”

“Thanks, Zevran,” Alistair said, equal part sarcastic and sincere. The sentiment was strangely touching, anyway. “If I ever want someone assassinated, I will let you know.” His stomach grumbled again, even more loudly this time. “Think I will go grab some food now.”

* * *

“Warden.” Smiling, Leliana poured the stew into his bowl.

It was her turn to cook, which was great because she did it well and never gave Alistair a stink-eye when he asked for second and third fills. In his chart, her cooking rated first, closely followed by Wynne’s. Zevran’s, when they finally allowed him on the roster, wasn’t so bad either, though he often complained about the lack of this or that ingredient. Now that Alistair thought about it, all three of them were potion makers. _Chopping, mixing, boiling… That’s not that different._

“Yes, Leliana?” Alastair wrapped his fingers around hers on the warm wood, and she glanced at their joined hands, a soft smile appearing on her face. Even though Alistair’s cheeks flushed red, he lingered just a tad too long  for it to be appropriate .

“I wanted to thank you for taking me to the Temple. You could have asked me to stay with Brother Genitivi, but you didn’t. It means a lot.”

In truth, he didn’t even consider it. Leliana was the most devout Chantry follower of his companions, and to leave her behind while taking, say, Morrigan… That would be just cruel.

“I knew how important it was to you, and I’m glad that I could share that experience.”

“I felt like she was there with us—”

“Giving us her blessing,” Alistair finished for Leliana.

“Yes” — her beautiful eyes widened — “that is what I was going to say. I thought that maybe I imagined it, but if you felt the same…” An inner light filled her lovely face: a moment of revelation. Wonder in her voice, eyes shining with deep conviction, she said, “This truly is a miracle, Warden. No words can describe my gratitude.”

Impulsively, she hugged him then. His nose touched her hair, and Alistair inhaled the smells of smoke and sweat, and underneath them, faint and faded but still there, lavender. He shivered, breath caught in his throat.

* * *

Later, when the darkness had fallen, watching Zevran and the dwarf across the campfire, Alistair had a strange feeling, as if a hot coal got into his stomach and was smouldering there. It was a feeling that he was becoming quite familiar with, lately.

Zevran leant closer to the dwarf and whispered in her ear, and Alistair wished he had Morrigan’s hearing. The witch was like a bat that way. Whatever Zevran said, it must have been a joke, for the dwarf threw her head back and laughed, the sound quiet but unrestrained. Zevran was looking at her with a soft smile that Alistair had never seen on his face before.

The elf twisted his hand in a quick motion and, as if by magic, an apple appeared on his open palm. She took it and bit into its red side. Alistair swallowed reflexively. Zevran said something else, making her pause with the apple halfway to her mouth.

_They are too close,_ Alistair thought even as Zevran brought a hand to her face and slowly wiped the splatter of juice off her chin with a thumb. Then, not breaking eye-contact with her, he licked his finger.

A coal burning in Alistair’s stomach flared to a dragon’s fire. It was peculiarly close to the feeling he got every time he saw Leliana smiling at Riordan. Almost like… He glanced at the other end of the camp where they were talking even now, then back at the dwarf and Zevran. … _Oh._

Grinning, the dwarf said something, bit the apple again, then stood up and walked away, to Wynne maybe, but Alistair was too busy to pay attention anymore, having a mind-boggling realisation, his inner voice chanting, _I’m such an idiot,_ on repeat.

Feeling an itch between his shoulder blades, he glanced over his shoulder and met Morrigan’s calculating gaze. He didn’t know what his expression said, but she raised an eyebrow, sending a message without speaking.

_‘What are you going to do about it, Warden?’_ it said, challenging him to take action.

Standing up, Alistair turned around and walked into his tent, Dog at his heels.

* * *

Quietness descended on the camp, signalling the start of the first shift, but sleep was eluding Alistair. He tossed and turned for hours, but the earth was too hard, and the sleeping bag still held the remnants of dampness from the wash he had given it after the darkspawn attack. His ears kept on catching the smallest noises, amplifying them to grotesque proportions, but focusing on the outside world was better than letting his thoughts run rampant, wreaking havoc in his already conflicted mind. A twig snapped. Alistair leapt out of his bedroll with his sword drawn and barely avoided falling on the blade as he overbalanced and came down on the ground, his ankles caught in the blanket. Dog, disturbed by his sudden movement, whined in protest.

Admitting defeat, Alistair untangled his legs and shoved the blanket aside. He rubbed his stinging knees and donned his armour, doing the buckles blindly thanks to years of practice. It was colder outside of his tent, but the air was fresh, and Alistair breathed deeply. Nodding to Riordan and Sten, he relieved them of watch duty and sat in front of the campfire. Curiously, it was quieter here, peaceful even. The massive corpse of the felled dragon was just a mound of deeper shadows against the slowly lightening sky.

Dog joined him and, after a moment, put his head on Alistair’s knee, watching his human companion with dark, intelligent eyes.

“What am I going to do, puppy?” Alistair murmured.

Dog whined in question.

“I’ve never been in such situation before, you know.”

The tilt of his head told Alistair that Dog was listening, but Alistair’s better judgment won — he was surrounded by people who made a living out of being unnoticeable — and his monologue turned internal. He liked them both, Leliana and the dwarf. They were so different, and yet. His heart skipped a beat whenever Leliana touched him, smiling sweetly. And there was the dwarf with her easy laughter and a funny joke whenever his mood was gloomy. Alistair sighed and rubbed his brows.

“And neither of them might have feelings for me, anyway.” Who’d have thought he would miss the Chantry? He looked at the sky, at the stars dimming with approaching dawn. “Maker, I bet you are laughing at me right now.” Somehow while Alistair wasn’t looking, his life had become very complicated.

“Is It not aware of my presence?” a voice asked from behind him, and only his armour prevented Alistair from jumping out of his skin.

“Shale,” he exhaled, heartbeat thundering in his ears. “You scared me half to death. I would appreciate it if you stomp your feet next time instead of sneaking up on me.”

“Hm. How typical of It to overlook a golem.” She snorted. “I was here the whole time.”

* * *

The situation with Sten came to a head a day’s walk from Gherlen’s Pass by Riordan’s reckoning. Alistair himself had never been in these parts, travelling only well inside Ferelden borders. Quite predictably, the higher up into the mountains they went, the colder it became. The game was scarce, and with no means to resupply, they had to ration food carefully, and that left Alistair suffering constant hunger pains and cursing the Warden’s metabolism. He didn’t know how Riordan was coping and didn’t feel like asking. Conversations around campfire became subsided and rare, but Alistair preferred silence over snappish remarks. Moods were low while the tension ran high. Something had to give.

The Qunari had been walking behind him, drilling holes in the back of his head — not literally, thank the Maker — for hours. It had passed the point of tiresome a while back, steadily gaining speed towards irritating. Alistair felt its final destination — unbearable — looming on the horizon. Sighing, he turned to face Sten and called for a stop.

“What is it?” Alistair asked, confronted with Sten’s usual expression.

“Tell me, do you intend to go north until it becomes south and attack the Archdemon from the rear?”

“If that’s what it takes to defeat the bastard. And why not? He won’t see us coming.”

Sten’s frown became more pronounced. “Hm. It would surprise me if my enemy counterattacks by running away and climbing a mountain.”

“Is that what you think we are doing? Running away?” Alistair raised his eyebrows. “ _I_ thought we are exercising a clever manoeuvre and training in endurance.”

“The Archdemon is our goal—”

“Truly? Thank you, Sten. Without you, I would never have guessed… Oh, wait, that’s not right!” Squaring his shoulders, Alistair took a step closer to Sten. They were almost chest to chest now, and Alistair, not a short man himself, hated that he had to look up to glare at the Qunari. It was giving him a crick in the neck. _Is this how dwarves feel all the time? How dreadful._ “I _do_ know it.”

“The other Warden, he has proved himself capable in battle and is your senior,” Sten said, glowering. “Why doesn’t he take the lead?”

“I am flattered that you think so highly of me,” Riordan said from the sidelines. Glancing his way, Alistair saw him raising his hands up in a placating gesture, his expression screaming, ‘leave me out of it.’ “But I have my own mission, and I can’t abandon it.”

“Hm.”

“Oh, just say it already.” Scowling, Alistair locked eyes with Sten. “You’ve been grumbling and glaring at me for long enough that even I noticed you don’t like me much.”

“I am unsatisfied with your leadership. My personal feelings do not matter—”

Alistair snorted. “As if.”

“—but I can no longer allow this to continue. I will not simply follow in your shadow as you run away from battle.”

“Oh, and you know exactly where the battle will be, is that it? Have you seen the Archdemon yourself, perhaps?”

“I know where the horde is attacking even now, as we speak, and it is not here. Let’s settle this.” Reaching behind his back, Sten drew his axe — the same axe that Alistair bought for him in Redcliffe — and shifted his stance; Alistair followed suit. “Defend yourself, Warden.”

“A fight!” Zevran clapped, a cat-like grin appearing on his face. “How _marvellous_.” For some reason, he sounded suspiciously like Leliana.

Sten attacked with an overhead blow that  Alistair took on his shield, staggering under the force of it but pushing back as soon as the axe slid off. It was a powerful strike, but the momentum carried Sten forward. _The only sure way to win,_ Alistair though, _is to end this quickly._ He pivoted and lunged, striking the side of Sten’s head with the pommel of his sword and immediately following with a shield bash. As much as Sten got on his nerves, he wasn’t the enemy, and Alistair didn’t have a reason to cripple him. _Maybe just slightly._ He was rather glad Sten didn’t have a helmet. As tough as Qunari were, Alistair _was_ a Grey Warden, with all the benefits of strength, reflexes, and stamina to balance the horrifying downside. His actions sent Sten to his knees.

Alistair brought the blade to his throat.

“Do you surrender?”

Sten blinked, his eyes unfocused. “I… yield.”

Nodding with satisfaction, Alistair  sheathed his sword and offered him a hand. The Qunari looked up and, after a moment of consideration, took it.

“I was wrong,” Sten said slowly. “You are strong enough.” He kept blinking and squinting, and though it was very bright — the snow glittered under the mid-morning sun — his pupils were blown wide.

“You should probably ask Wynne for help.” Alistair scratched the back of his neck. “Looks like you have a concussion.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Here is where I leave you,” Riordan said, stopping at a crossroad. He had spent the last several minutes saying goodbyes to various members of the company, and now it was Alistair’s turn.

The way to Orlais went straight ahead, farther through Gherlen’s Pass and higher into the mountains, while the entrance to Orzammar lay a short walk down the road leading to the right. Alistair heard the hubbub of a market. In his experience, merchants were never quiet, but dwarves raised the noise to the next level. Ignoring the proclamations of ‘best merchandise’ and ‘finest wares,’ Alistair clasped Riordan’s forearm and pulled him into a manly, one-armed embrace.

Used to Riordan’s presence at the back of his mind, different but not dissimilar to that of the darkspawn, Alistair didn’t want to go back to feeling completely alone. More than that, he _liked_ Riordan. The man was more open than Duncan had ever been and had shared several crucial titbits not knowing which could have led to a disaster. Upon hearing Riordan’s explanation, Alistair had pictured a future where someone else, not a Warden, killed the Archdemon and shuddered at the thought.

_Bloody enormous, body hopping lizard,_ he thought at the time _._ Why wasn’t this knowledge made public? Why keep it secret even among the Order members? Riordan’s answer had been to shrug and change the subject. To Alistair, it didn’t make sense. Since then, questions plagued his mind.

Why had _Duncan_ kept silent? _Such an irrelevant information during the Blight. Why would I ever need to know that, right?_ he’d seethed. The possibility of Loghain taking a different course of actions had he fully comprehended the importance of the Grey Wardens made Alistair’s stomach churn. What would have happened had he not met Riordan? It didn’t bear thinking about. That damned secrecy was counterproductive to uphold. Pity no one in Weisshaupt was interested in his opinion.

“Take care of yourself,” Alistair said in the present, releasing Riordan and stepping back. He had to ask one last thing. “Are you _sure_ you want me to have the vial? Just imagining losing it makes me dizzy.”

If he paid attention, Alistair felt the taint radiating from it even through the thick enchanted glass. The Archdemon’s blood, the key to the Joining ritual also known by Wardens as the _secret ingredient,_ hung from a cord around his neck. Honestly, Alistair would have much preferred to hand it to Riordan and be done with it, but _duty_ and _opportunities_ and _what-ifs_ had changed his mind.

_Secrets, secrets, secrets. It’s a wonder we don’t hide our names, calling ourselves by numbers. Warden Seventy-Two, reporting for duty._

Riordan nodded. “Yes, Alistair, I’m sure,” he said with a short sigh. “You are the Senior Warden of Ferelden—”

“Only because I’m the _only_ Warden of Ferelden.”

“—and I trust your judgment.”

A warmth bloomed in Alistair’s chest. It was a nice feeling. “Thank you.” He swallowed. “But I still feel like pointing out that if you come back and find half of Orzammar conscripted, I’m going to say, I told you so.” Alistair smiled, but the joke fell flat. He shook his head. A strand of hair got into his eye. He brushed it aside with some surprise. Had it been that long since Ostagar and his last haircut? It felt like only yesterday and, at the same time, like the gap of time spanned forever. “Stay safe, brother.”

“Maker watch over you. Until we meet again.” Pulling his hood up, Riordan walked onto the bridge and soon was out of sight.

“Right then,” Alistair said, resetting his backpack — and the weight of responsibility — on his shoulders. “Orzammar, here we come.”

* * *

“Hey, Alistair,” Natia said as nonchalantly as she could manage. The use of his name guaranteed his immediate attention. Not that she doubted his willingness to help, but with humans, Natia was never sure. Across the market, the ostentatious golden doors gleamed in the last rays of the setting sun. Natia hadn’t been this close to her lost home since the day she had narrowly avoided a one-way trip to the Deep Roads.

_The last and greatest dwarven kingdom. What a load of rubbish._

“If anyone asks,” she said, her gaze flitting from one dwarven face to the next. _Only merchants._ So far, she hadn’t seen anyone she knew. “I’m with the Wardens, yes?”

“All right,” Alistair said. A slight frown pulled on his brows. “Should I ask you why, or am I better off not knowing?”

“See, I’m a bit…” Natia hesitated. “How to put it… Eh, what the hell. I’m kind of banned from Orzammar, so if anyone asks, I’m under the Grey Warden’s protection.” Her gaze jumped to him to check his reaction. “Yeah?”

Alistair blinked. “Banned,” he repeated slowly, as if tasting the word. “As in ‘can’t set foot there on pain of death’ banned, or are we talking ‘forcibly turned around at the gate’ banned?”

“As in ‘banned to the Deep Roads’ banned. Last time, I got lucky and hoofed it to the surface.” Natia shrugged. _No big deal._ “I hope nobody will give a damn about me anyway. I’m not famous or anything, and guards should be busy pulling apart fights. You know how it is with the dwarva.” 

Though it was clear by the look in his eyes that he had no idea what she was talking about, Alistair nodded. “Of course.” He put a hand on her shoulder. To reassure her, Natia thought. “I’ll always have your back. You needn’t ask.”

She held his gaze for just a moment too long. “Just making sure I don’t need to don a disguise.”

“A disguise?..”

“A Chantry robe and a wig.” Natia grinned at his incredulous expression. “I came prepared.”

“A Chantry robe,” Alistair mouthed.

“Oh, hey,” she said, spotting a familiar dour-faced human who she could sell the scrap mountain accumulated in her backpack over the weeks of looting. Never could it be said that Natia did not appreciate the Ancestors, especially Paragon Fairel, the inventor of extension and weight adjustment runes. “That weasel over there might have something worth looking at. Let’s check it out!”

* * *

Faryn, a seller of ‘previously owned’ goods as he called them, turned out to be a scavenger and a blabbermouth. Seeing Sten, he couldn’t resist bragging, saying that he had something suitable for every customer of any race across all Thedas.

“Why, I even came across a Qunari sword a while ago,” Faryn said, puffing his chest.

_That_ was a gross miscalculation on his part, for Sten got in his face and demanded Faryn hand that sword over.

“My friend isn’t a patient man,” Alistair said, keeping his expression blank, though internally he was beside himself. Sten’s sword was a touchy subject that only recently came to light. Apparently, killing a high dragon together was considered a feat allotting a measure of respect among the Qunari, and with that — a bit of sharing. “If I were you, I’d answer quickly.”

“I don’t know where it is, I swear!” Faryn couldn’t boast a healthy complexion to begin with, but the rapidly spreading pallor that tinted his skin green made him look like a particularly talkative corpse.

_Ugh._

Glowering even harder, Sten caught the scavenger by the front of his shirt and lifted him up until only the toes of his boots were scraping the ground.

“Wrong answer,” Alistair commented.

Faryn gulped. Sweat streamed over his forehead, getting into his eyes and making them water. “All right, all right! There’s no need for violence!” he shrieked. “I sold it to a dwarf from Redcliffe named Dwyn! That’s all I know, now unhand me, you, fiend!” Faryn delivered his speech at a speed that made it near impossible to understand, jumbled words tripping over each other, and Sten’s snarling lips twisted in disgust.

“Parshaara, maraas qulaba,”* Sten snapped, relaxing his fist and allowing gravity to pull Faryn down onto his feet.

“If you lied,” Alistair said nonchalantly, “we will find you again, you understand.”

“Yes, yes.” Faryn straightened his clothes with fast, jerky movements, his hands shaking. “Now leave me alone, would you? You have done enough, scaring all my customers away.” He didn’t look at any of them, his eyes not leaving the ground, and Alistair felt a stab of pity for the cowardly man.

“Pleasure doing busyness with you,” their dwarf said, giving the scavenger a cheerful smile, and Wynne pressed her lips together, radiating disapproval in waves.

Everyone was back to normal.

* * *

After swiftly dealing with Loghain’s soldiers and sending a message to the traitor himself, Alistair was in the mood to hit something, Natia could tell just by the set of his shoulders. Well, that could be arranged at the drop of a hat. The way they were all dressed in decent armour or robes, she figured it was a matter of minutes before some reckless duster would try his luck.

They hadn’t made it past the Commons when a commotion broke out right in front of them. King Endrin had died, and of course, the deep lords couldn’t pull their heads out of their arses long enough to elect a new one. So now two groups of dwarves were at each other’s throats, shouting insults, proclaiming their chosen patron to be the rightful king, and cursing their opponents to Bownammar and back. It wasn’t long until verbal threats escalated to physical.

Natia snorted, crossing her arms and watching the show. _Typical Warrior Caste._ “Ah, home, sweet home. Not a day without backstabbing. It’s like I never left.”

“These are the representatives of the ‘ _pretenders for the throne’_ the guard at the gate was talking, I take it?” Alistair asked.

“Got it in one,” Natia said, and if her voice carried traces of bitterness, what of it? Distracted by a glimpse of a familiar brand in the gathered crowd of onlookers, she missed a concerned look Alistair sent her way. “There’s a tavern, Tapsters, down this street.” She waved to the left of the bridge leading to the Proving Grounds without looking. “I will meet you there in three hours with news.” And before anyone could stop her, Natia dashed off in the opposite direction.

“I feel it would be best if I depart, too, Warden,” Zevran said. He didn’t wait for Alistair’s assent, either.

* * *

“It’s been four and a half hours, and she said three. What’s taking them so long?” Alistair paced around the table, unable to sit still any longer. They had been waiting for their dwarf and Zevran to return for closer to two hours already, and the more time passed with no word from them, the more gruesome images his imagination painted. Alistair disliked waiting. The unreasonable, stifling heat of the stuffy tavern and the awful, the sour smell of stale drinks piled on top of his mounting anxiety did nothing to alleviate his irritation.

“They might be imprisoned or even dead by now. We should go look for them!”

“You should check your possessions,” Morrigan said from her place in front of the fire, casually inspecting her nails. “After all, your little sidekick is a professional thief. I wouldn’t be surprised if all your meagre savings are missing.”

“She wouldn’t steal from us, Morrigan,” Leliana voiced his opinion, and Alistair sent her a grateful look.

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” the witch said in a tone that sent shivers marching down the back of Alistair’s neck.

_And what’s that suppose to mean?_ Stopping abruptly, Alistair leant on the wall next to the fireplace and stared at the witch, unblinking. The rock felt warm even through layers of clothing and armour.

Several minutes of heavy silence later, Morrigan’s composure finally cracked. “Why are you looking at me like that?” She shifted in place. “Do I have something on my face?”

“Just want to check if your tongue is barbed,” Alistair answered.

“Natia!” Leliana’s exclaim covered whatever Morrigan said next. Probably, for the best. “Oh, we’ve been so worried something bad happened! Are you all right?”

Alistair whirled around and, sure enough, here their missing dwarf was, Zevran by her side, not a scratch on them— “Wait, your name is Natia?”

“You didn’t know?” Natia and Leliana said at the same time.

“Er. I feel stupid” — Morrigan snorted — “admitting this, but no. You haven’t introduced yourself, and that one time I asked, you’ve been interrupted.” Self-consciously, Alistair tugged at his ear and shrugged.

Natia raised her an eyebrow. “Well, it’s Natia Brosca in case you ever need my last name.” She shook her head as if to switch to another track physically. “Anyway, come on. We’re going to the Palace.”

“Um, the Palace?”

“My sister, Rica — you met her demonic look-alike in the Fade, Warden — is Prince Bhelen’s concubine now,” Natia said, a half-smile forming on her face. “I have a nephew!”

The reactions to this announcement fell one of the two ways — happiness or indifference. Wynne and Leliana congratulated her while Morrigan, Shale, and Sten remained silent, projecting various degrees of annoyance for the delay. Alistair joined the nicer women.

“All right,” he said when the excitement died down. Then a thought occurred to him. “Does it mean that I should support Bhelen?”

“Oh, yes, definitely!” Unable to keep still, Natia _danced_ around their table. Never before had he seen their calmly amused dwarf this giddy. It was simply astonishing to witness. “Bhelen is going to make Orzammar _better!_ ”

* * *

On the way to the Diamond Quarter, Natia gave them a run-down on Orzammar’s caste system, and Alistair decided that even if she weren’t a casteless dwarf herself, he still would have backed up Bhelen. A whole level of society rejected for an accident of birth? Orzammar needed change, and badly.

Wynne, however, expressed doubt. “Warden, I believe we should seek Lord Harrowmont instead. Prince Bhelen killed his own father, and I heard that he framed his sister for the murder of their older brother.” A grimace appeared on her face halfway through her speech. “Maker, this is giving me a headache.”

“Rumours and hearsay,” Natia cut in, her voice frosty and eyes narrowed. Frankly, Alistair wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d decided to sharpen one of her daggers just then.

“My dear Wynne, it is simply politics,” Zevran said. He patted the old mage’s arm, for once, forgoing ogling her assets or making any kind of innuendo. “Murder and assassinations often go hand in hand with power. Even if he did those things, and I’m not saying that he did —” Zevran paused “— from what I’ve gathered, he will make an excellent king.”

Wynne looked at Alistair.

“What?” he asked after a minute or so of enduring her gaze. He widened his eyes and raised his eyebrows. “Oh! You are waiting for _my_ opinion? I thought you had it all figured out without my input.”

Wynne sighed, expressing with this short sound the amount of disappointment appropriate only in cases of letting down the Maker himself. But the discussion was over anyway: they had arrived at the Palace.

* * *

A lovely dwarf that looked _exactly_ like the demon from Natia’s nightmare but nothing at all like her younger sister introduced them to Prince Bhelen without delay. Rica had an effortless poise, her glances were demure and her voice quiet. She even blushed and lowered her eyes at some of Natia’s remarks. Alistair couldn’t imagine two women more different. _And yet—_

The Prince’s hard gaze spoke of ruthlessness and determination; it cut through the outer layers and saw to the core. Smart and cunning, he was capable of pulling the kingdom out of the Ancient times just by the sheer force of his will, and Alistair didn’t doubt for a moment that Bhelen would do whatever it took to reach his goals. All things considered, as allies go, Alistair though they could have done a lot worse than Bhelen Aeducan.

* * *

Watching bits of froth float on the surface of his mug, Alistair didn’t notice Natia’s approach until she spoke next to his ear.

“When are you going to tell her?” she asked, startling him out of his contemplation.

Alistair winced and moved his unfocused gaze to her. “Tell what and to whom?”

The ale here was different, not what you’d get on the surface — darker and sourer, and a lot more potent. At Prince Bhelen’s word, his seneschal — or second, or whatever his rank was — Vartan Gavorn provided them with accommodations in the Royal wing. Hot baths, soft beds, food and drink brought by serving girls, summoned by a touch to a rune… The Prince’s show of hospitality for his allies didn’t know bounds, it seemed. Alistair suspected it had more to do with Rica and Natia than with his status as a Warden. Still, he wasn’t going to complain.

“Your feelings to our bard,” Natia levelled at him an exasperated look. “This place” — she made a sweeping gesture, encompassing the lavish common room with its stone benches drowning in silken pillows — “is the best you can hope for a grand confession leading to making sweet, sweet love to her.”

_“Sw…”_ Alistair choked on air, feeling the flush of his cheeks. “What?” he croaked, mind going empty.

Rolling her eyes, Natia pushed the mug into his hands, and Alistair drank from it without thinking, staring at her like she had suddenly sprouted wings and a second head. The wave of liquid fire scorched his throat, leaving a bitter aftertaste in his mouth.

“You’ve been mooning over Leliana since I first saw you two together,” she stated, pulling the rug from under his feet, and Alistair suppressed the urge to let out an unmanly giggle.

Here he was, deep in his cups, wracking his brain for an answer, or at least that was how his evening had started… _Seems the choice is out of my hands, after all._ But instead of feeling relieved, Alistair was left strangely bereft, and all the alcohol sloshing in his belly did nothing to fill the void that opened there at hearing her words.

Natia nodded, her job done — Alistair stared at the little quirk of her lips. Was she about to smile or?.. —she turned to go.

“Thanks, I think,” Alistair’s mouth said, and, sluggish and clumsy, Alistair emptied his mug.

* * *

“I overheard you speaking with the Warden,” Zevran murmured, about an hour later, joining her in front of the fireplace. “May I ask you why did you push him away? You can have him in your bed in an instance if you so choose.”

“I could if I wanted.” Natia shrugged, not looking up from the flames.

It was always too cold for her on the surface, not like here, deep in the mountain where the rock was warm even in Dust Town: Ancestors build Orzammar among rivers of lava. Earlier that day, walking through the familiar streets and listening to the titbits of gossip, Natia realised that no matter how hard her life here was, she missed it. It hit her with the force of a hammer descending onto an anvil. Of course, she missed her dear sister, her knucklehead friend Leske, and even her mother, always drunk on the cheapest swill there was to find, but—

Natia had been worried about her them. The few letters she managed to send with more-or-less reliable people went unanswered, and, helpless to do anything more, she had forcibly put them out of her mind, squashing her feelings as soon as they resurfaced. It was with a staggering sense of relief that she found her family safe, well provided and cared for, but… She never wanted to return.

Her thoughts turned to Alistair, a sweet, funny, honest, and strong, but sometimes so painfully inexperienced man. More often than not, she wanted to bundle him in a thick blanket and hide from the world. A duster like her? Life had taught her some valuable lessons. Want something? Grab it and hold onto it for all you’re worth, like Rica had done. Despite all odds, her sister had achieved what she always wanted — climbed the ladder to the highest step, secured her future. And she, Natia Brosca, always the adventurer, the rebel, admired Rica for it. But their differences ran deeper than mere looks. 

Swallowing, Natia thought, _I won’t be a second anything. No more._ Not her, never again, not after waiting for so long for Leske to notice her only for him to turn to the first pretty face coupled with a big rack to show interest in him.

Natia had seen how Alistair watched Leliana and, yes, how he looked at her. But even if she made a move and they ended up together, Natia’d always have a little voice in her head whispering things that would make her doubt. And if she waited for Alistair to make the first step, she risked dying of old age. The thing was, though Natia liked him, she wasn’t in love with him. She could be. The possibility was here, and if she let herself go, it would be easy. But. She also liked Leliana and didn’t want to tread on her toes. It felt dishonest, went against her code of conduct. _You don’t betray people who saved your life._

With Zevran, she didn’t have to guess at her standing. Her lips twisting into a lopsided grin, she thought that he’d sleep with anything on two legs and moderately attractive.

Natia raised her gaze to the elf and found him watching her intently.

“Good night, Zevran,” she said softly and, standing up, turned to leave but paused. Leaning down, Natia pecked him on the lips.

* * *

At midday — and wasn’t it strange, measuring time underground? — suffering from a horrendous hangover, Alistair vowed to never, not in a million years, and not even if the death of the Archdemon depended on it, drink dwarven beverages ever again. Troubling matters of the heart? Pff! He was lucky to be alive.

Thankfully, he didn’t have to suffer too long. After an hour of Alistair turning green at the mention of food, Wynne finally took pity on him and worked her magic.

“You are a saint and a lifesaver! We need more people like you,” Alistair said as waves of healing energy washed over him. The awful pounding in his head left, taking the wooziness with it. Good mood returning, he felt ready to take on an army in single combat. “I bet if mages advertise this ability to the masses, people will stop fearing you and besiege the Grand Cathedral, demanding of the Most Holy to free you once and for all. No one who can cure hangovers can be evil!”

His heartfelt words met an amused smile. “You are welcome, Warden.”

“Admit it, this is the reason why there are court mages, isn’t it?”

“Of course,” Wynne agreed, a barely there smile on her lips, and Alistair squinted at her with suspicion, “our only purpose at any court is to cure young men of the consequences of their bad decisions.”

“You are laughing at me. _That!_ ” He pointed his finger at her. “That is your mocking face! I knew you have one!”

“Perhaps, I’m not always so serious as you seem to believe. I was young too once,” Wynne said, then a stern note entered her light tone, “and I hope that today’s experience taught you a valuable lesson.”

Schooling his features into a serious expression, Alistair nodded. “Overindulgence is bad if you don’t have a healer nearby.”

* * *

“I feel like I should ask,” Alistair said to the group, gathered in the common room at his request. In the morning, they would depart for the Deep Roads to track down a paragon, and Alistair felt like he needed to at least give them a chance of protection against the taint. “Does anyone want to join the Grey Wardens?”

Alistair didn’t need to be fluent in reading expressions to understand a ‘no’ when he saw it. No one took him up on his offer, which was both a relief and a disappointment. He didn’t want to see any of them dead — however indirectly — by his hand, succumbed to the foul concoction. Their reactions were, of course, varied.

Morrigan laughed.

“Can a golem even join?” Shale asked. “I haven’t heard of golem Grey Wardens.”

“No offence, Warden,” Natia said, “but life of service just isn’t for me. Plus I’d get to dream of the Archdemon, right?” Alistair nodded. “And that I’d rather go without, thanks. One nightmare is more than enough for a lifetime.”

“Your cause is just” — Sten inclined his head in acknowledgement — “however, I live by the Qun.”

Alistair nodded, accepting their reasonings. “Well, if anyone changes their mind, just let me know. There’s also the question of the Deep Roads.” He took a deep breath. “It is a dangerous place even for Grey Wardens, and I’ll understand if anyone wants to stay behind.”

“No way I’m going there,” Natia said quickly, leaning back in her chair and folding her arms over her chest. “I’d rather stick my head into a dragon’s mouth and call its mother ugly.”

That was understandable, given her history, and… Some time away from her was exactly what Alistair needed.

“If you do not mind, Warden,” Zevran said, “I’d like to stay here as well. I have a feeling my expertise and unique skill set might be of use.”

Alistair had a very good idea for whom it might be. “Just don’t let her get into too much trouble while we aren’t here to pull her out of them.”

Natia snorted.

“Of course.” With a sidelong look at Natia, Zevran inclined his head. “I will keep an eye on our dear friend.”

“You can keep more than one eye on me.” Natia winked.

Alistair ruthlessly stomped on the jealousy that flared to life. _Time away, good. Ugly feelings, bad._ “All right. There are some tasks Prince Bhelen wants done, so I’d like you to look into them.” He paused and added, “You will be representing Grey Wardens.”

The witch wore a disdainful expression, but something in her face told Alistair she was barely holding her tongue. He wondered what was stopping her and what acerbic remark she wanted to deliver this time.

Steeling himself for an inevitable barb, he asked, “What about you, Morrigan?”

Turning her head slowly, she gave him a withering stare. “Going into the darkspawn territory at the behest of a would-be king? How wonderful.” Her lips curled to bare her teeth. “You needn’t even ask, Warden. I’m definitely going with you. Someone needs to ensure you survive long enough to defeat the Archdemon. Or at least until your Orlesian brethren join us.”

Alistair rolled his eyes. “Fine, whatever.” 

The witch was definitely planning something.

* * *

The expedition into the Deep Roads started with a new addition to the company, went a lot worse than Alistair had expected, and ended a month later with him leading a tired and dirty but overall no worse for the wear group back to the Palace, a golden crown, Caridin’s last creation, lying safely in his bag. There were things that a person just couldn’t unsee, and a broodmother was definitely one of them. Her horrific image was forever burned into Alistair’s mind. He dearly regretted bringing any of the women with him. Given a chance, Alistair would have spared even _Morrigan_ from seeing _that_.

“One more thing, Your Majesty,” Alistair said to the newly crowned king after Bhelen had assured him that the dwarven army was at his disposal, as promised, and that the Wardens from Orlais are more than welcome to join it. “I’m told that it is a customary punishment for criminals to be sent to the Deep Roads.” He paused, unsure of how best to phrase it and what to reveal. But this secret was too important to keep hidden. “You should know… While darkspawn are genderless, they use women to breed,” Alistair said bluntly. “Death is a more merciful fate.”

“Ancestors,” Bhelen breathed out, the colour draining from his face. “And we’ve been providing them for centuries…” Just as quickly as it appeared, his shock passed. His jaw set and eyes narrowed, Bhelen gripped his sceptre in a white-knuckled hold. “Thank you for bringing it to my attention, Warden, I will deal with it.”

* * *

The whole Deep Roads debacle — aside from being mentally scarring — sparked Alistair’s will to live. He wanted to see the sun and the sky, feel the wind and smell the freshness of the air after a storm, and most of all, he wanted not to be underground. No matter how high the ceiling, it was still there, a stone dome hiding in the shadows.

* * *

Leaving Orzammar, Alistair wasn’t sure if they would be short a cute dwarf. As a substitute for Natia, Oghren just didn’t cut it. Especially not with his appalling lack of grooming habits. Baths were invented for a reason. To his relief, she did show up, catching up with them at the gate, in better gear and with a new backpack slung over her shoulder.

“Eh, you didn’t tell me I’d be travelling with a member of the Royal family!” Oghren said, looking Natia up and down with open appreciation. Rumours underground spread _fast_. “Not as pretty as your sister, but you will do.”

Natia mirrored his appraisal right back and evidently found him less than satisfying. She wrinkled her nose. “You I won’t.”

Oghren chuckled, not offended in the least, “Yeah, ye’r all right.”

And that was the end of it. Alistair had no idea what to do with this byplay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Qulaba is a type of cow that the Qunari breed known for its stupidity.  
> Parshaara, maraas qulaba — Enough, a (very stupid) cow bleating without meaning.
> 
> I've been sitting on this chapter for a very long while, and last week it finally dawned on me: it isn't going to get any better. I hope it's worth the wait.


	7. Chapter 7

Redcliffe hadn’t changed much in their absence. The villagers, no longer under the threat of the undead horrors, had rebuilt what they could, but with so many dead, their dark and abandoned houses standing out like gaps in a beggar’s smile, the village felt empty.

The clanking of his armour banished the silence out of the castle halls as Alistair followed a serving girl to Arl Eamon’s bedroom. Hunching her shoulders, she never looked higher than his chin and answered in a voice barely rising above a whisper. Rounding corners, the girl held her breath as if expecting a demon to jump out and kill her like so many of the others.  It wasn’t an unreasonable reaction.  Alistair bit the inside of his cheek, uncomfortably aware that even if the ashes would work and Eamon would recover, nothing in this place would ever be the same.

Arl Eamon’s condition remained stable; he lay, pale and unmoving, under a thick duvet and would have looked like a well-preserved corpse, suspended in time for some unfathomable purpose, if not for the shallow rises and falls of his chest. The Arlessa, however, became a shadow of herself. The loss of Connor to the Circle had done what even his demonic possession couldn’t and sapped the will to live out of her, leaving an almost translucent figure in place of a strong and proud woman. Her form, frail and broken, was a constant fixture at her husband’s bedside. To Alistair, she seemed closer to death than the Arl.

As Alistair, Wynne, and Leliana filed in through the doorway, Isolde stood to greet them. Her red-rimmed eyes were filled with so much hope, as if Alistair held the power of mending or breaking the last vestiges of her life, that his heart gave a painful twinge.

“Did you find it?” Isolde’s voice was scratchy from disuse. She clutched Arl Eamon’s unresponsive hand like a cord anchoring her to this world.

Alistair didn’t hesitate, not with his answer, nor actions. The ashes worked; the miracle happened. For the first time in months, Arl Eamon took a deep breath, and everyone else exhaled in relief. As if waking from a restful sleep, Eamon stretched and opened his eyes. Slowly, he sat up and blinked in confusion.

“Alistair?” Eamon frowned. “Is that you?” He looked around, his gaze travelling from one unfamiliar face to another. “How long have I been asleep? What’s going on?”

Isolde was crying again, but this time, Alistair though, it was the tears of happiness.

“What’s wrong?” the Arl asked, and her sobs became even harder.

Giving them privacy, Alistair quietly stepped away, following Wynne and Leliana out. Closing the door on what could have been his family, Alistair knew he would never forget the naked dread on Eamon’s face when he said, “Isolde, where is Connor?”

* * *

The news of what he had missed aged Eamon, adding at least two decades to his years in the span of an hour. He promised help and proposed a plan to take down Loghain. They would need allies, he said, to overthrow the traitor on the Landsmeet.  Arl Eamon would travel to Denerim to arrange it. He  also volunteered Redcliffe as the base for the Grey Wardens to operate from. It wasn’t ideal, given the castle’s south-western location — Alistair would have preferred some place in the Bannorn — but it was better than trying to move a large body of soldiers at short notice all the way from the Frostback Mountains when the Archdemon would finally make its move.

And  as the frosting on the cake, it would piss off the traitor when his spies inevitably reported it to him. Only when Eamon spoke of Loghain did life entered his eyes, ignited by the fires of hatred.

_Vengeance_ , Alistair decided, _is the only thing keeping Arl Eamon from breaking at the seams._ In his paranoia, Loghain made so many terrible mistakes, turning friends into enemies, he didn’t stand a chance of winning.

* * *

The night before their departure from the castle, Alistair found Leliana in the library. She was sitting in an overstuffed armchair that seemed to be trying to pull her into its wine-red belly. A parchment with a broken wax seal dangled from her slack fingers. The distant look in her eyes didn’t change as Alistair walked closer.

He cleared his throat, and Leliana started, which had never happened before. _This must be some letter._

“Warden!” she said, coming back to earth. “I didn’t hear your approach.”

Right there and then, Alistair decided not to point out that outside of a combat situation, he had the gait of a lumbering Druffalo and had grazed an ugly floor vase with his scabbard just around the corner. Instead, he said, “Clearly, I’m getting better at stealth. Soon, I’ll be able to sneak into the kitchens without alerting half the cooks. A Silent Crawler, that’s me.” He gave her a shallow bow, provoking a slight smile, and asked, “Interesting read?”

Leliana glanced at the letter. “Riordan will arrive in Redcliffe in two weeks.”

_Ah, Riordan! And why did Riordan feel the need to inform you of his whereabouts?_ Alistair had to bite his tongue to keep himself from saying that aloud. After all, he, too, received a message to that effect though Alistair suspected that the tone of it was entirely different.

“Oh. Well.” Suddenly uncertain, Alistair didn’t know what to do with his hands.  He linked them together. “That’s good.” He cleared his throat. “So are you… You know…” An awkward hand gesture. “Maker’s breath,” Alistair muttered, “this shouldn’t be such a hard question.”

Raising her eyebrows, Leliana waited for him to finish his thought.

Alistair tried again: “Are you and Riordan… friends?”

Leliana blinked. “Yes, Warden, we are friends.”

“ _Friends_ friends?”

A slow smile appeared on her face. “Are you trying to ask me if we are involved?”

“Yes! That’s, that’s a good word. _Involved._ I will have to remember it. Um.” Alistair swallowed. His tongue lay heavy in his  parched mouth. It took an effort to speak. “Are you?”

Tilting her head to the side, Leliana studied him with half-lidded eyes.  “He did express an interest in pursuing a romantic relationship” — a lump of ice formed in Alistair’s stomach; his face grew hot. He was too late. _Dear Maker, this was such a terrible idea!_ — “but I told him no. There’s someone else I like.”

Not quite daring to hope, Alistair glanced at Leliana to see her biting her lip. “Someone else?”

“Um-hum.” She folded the letter along the creases in the parchment. “He is a Warden, too.”

A rush of dizziness made Alistair’s knees weak. His body felt light as a feather and might have drifted to the ceiling were his scabbard and sword not weighing it down. “And what would you say if that Warden asked you to accompany him for a walk in the winter garden?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Leliana put her chin on her open palm and looked at Alistair from under her long eyelashes. “He’ll have to ask first.”

A swarm of angry butterflies attacked the inside of his belly. “Would you like to go for a walk with me, Leliana?”

The corners of her lips went up. “Why, yes, I’d like that very much.”

Alistair couldn’t contain his wide grin even if he wanted to. He bowed in earnest, bending at the waist, and offered her his hand. “Shall we?”

She placed her delicate fingers onto his sweaty palm, and Alistair mentally cursed himself for not thinking to wipe it. That didn’t seem to bother Leliana though; she made no comment.

“We shall,” she said, and Alistair helped her out of the chair.

He led her to a glazed in veranda on the second floor. With windows on three sides, the garden was bright and airy, and full of colourful local and foreign flowers. In the last days of Guardian, green even during the cold seasons trees bloomed a myriad of tiny pink blossoms, exuding a tender, sweet aroma.

They made a circuit around the flower beds with Leliana admiring the fiery orange beads of Prophet’s Laurels and the red cores of hardy Embriums and Alistair listening to the sound of her voice. He tried to follow her explanations, but his gaze would fall on her lips and the words would lose meaning, so Alistair smiled and nodded along while his heart swelled in his chest, ready to burst through his ribs.

A vine of Arbor Blessing, a promise of comfort and abundance in folk’s tales, climbed the wall behind one of the benches, and Alistair took it as the sign of good fortune. He guided Leliana to it. They sat.

“Leliana,” Alistair said, their joined hands suspended in mid-air between them, “I—”

A shouted command of a drill sergeant training the castle guards in the courtyard drifted through the windows interrupting his speech, and Alistair grimaced. Profanities weren’t a suitable accompaniment for this conversation.

Leliana giggled and squeezed his hand. Alistair started again, his insides knotting themselves into little bows, “I—”  and the sergeant's voice got louder. “Oh, for Maker’s sake!”  With his free hand, Alistair pulled a cloth out of the inner pocket of his jacket. “Here. This is for you.”

“What is it?” Leliana asked.

“A present.” Alistair smiled wryly. “Or was I not obvious enough? I can try harder next time.”

She took it and untied the string holding the edges of the cloth together. A sharp intake of breath was her only reaction.

The flower lying on the washed-out, threadbare cotton was small, its petals changing colour from white to red at its centre. It wasn’t much to look at, not compared to the surrounding them exotic abundance, but Alistair thought it beautiful all the same. He lowered his eyes, afraid to see Leliana’s disappointed.

“Andraste’s Grace,” she said. “How wonderful!”

And Alistair chanced a glance. Holding the flower by its stem, Leliana brought it to her face and rested the petals against her lips for one short moment. An inner light was in her eyes when she raised them to meet Alistair’s gaze.

“I found it in the village the first time we came here and thought of you,” Alistair said softly. “But there wasn’t the right time to give it to you, and…”

“Thank you, Alistair. It’s lovely.” She took his hand again then.

“Wynne put enchantments to preserve it,” Alistair continued, gesturing to the flower. “It should stay fresh even if the Blight swallows us all. Not that I want that to happen, of course, but. Imagine, the world in ruins, with nothing left but taint and darkspawn, and this flower, same as the day it was cut. Wouldn’t it be something?”

“Then something precious would have survived, and all thanks to you.”

“And Wynne. Can’t forget Wynne’s help. She was very grouchy about it, you know. Kept giving me the looks. I think she disapproves of romance. Or just of anything other than my duties. As if I could forget them. But, that’s not what I meant to say at all. Ahem. Let me start over?”

Leliana nodded, and Alistair took a deep breath, calling his thought to order.

“I care for you, deeply. Ever since the day we met, you’ve been my light in this trying times. Your support means more than I can tell.” He paused, the fluttering in his stomach returning, and finished much less sure, “Am I alone in my feelings?”

“You aren’t. I’m fond of you, and I care about you, too. You are very special to me, Alistair.”

“That’s great!” Alistair blurted, unable to hold his treacherous tongue still. _Maker curse my nerves and inexperience! I should have spent the time in the Chantry reading Orlesian novels, not memorising the chant._ “I… Can I?.. I don’t know what’s the proper way to do it. Should I ask first?” he mumbled.

“Ask what?” Leliana said. Her voice was laced with amusement.

“Oh, you know.” Alistair made a twisting motion with his free hand. “About what comes next. If we both care for and are fond of each other, then, shouldn’t the steamy bits follow?”

“Ah, the _steamy bits_. Of course,” Leliana said seriously.

He squinted at her. “You are laughing at me, aren’t you? I know you are.”

“No, not at all.” She bit her lip, drawing his gaze to it.

“Oh, well.” Alistair sighed, alternating glances between her eyes and mouth. _Nothing for it._ “May I kiss you?”

Leliana’s lips widened into a grin, and suddenly, they were breathing the same air, and Alistair’s palm was touching her cheek, and—

“I thought you’d never ask,” Leliana murmured, and Alistair closed the distance.

* * *

When they had found the Dalish elves, Zathrian, the leader of the clan they stumbled upon in the Brecilian Forest, refused to honour the treaties _unless_ Alistair helped him to resolve his pesky little _werewolf_ problem. After Redcliffe and Orzammar, Alistair should have expected nothing less. Everyone needed some sort of incentive to fight the Blight these days, never mind the darkspawn killing people and poisoning the lands. Why did he even think the Dalish would be any different?

_It’s like the Archdemon brought madness with it,_ Alistair mused. _No better time to start a war or pick up an old blood feud than when your country is being torn apart, right?_

He disliked the old elf from the beginning. The way Zathrian spoke, the look in his eyes… There was something _wrong_ with him even if Alistair couldn’t put his finger on it. So it wasn’t a complete shock when the whole sorry tale got out in the open. He tried to negotiate peace, explain to the elf that children — especially several times grand- children — were not responsible for the deeds of their forebears, but maybe his way with words wasn’t up to par, or Zathrian was too blinded by hatred to see reason. Either way, to lift the curse the elf had to die, and he refused to do it. Alistair would have preferred for him to go willingly, but beggars can’t be choosers. They fought.

In the end, the old man came to his senses. The former werewolves left to start new lives elsewhere, and with a new Keeper of the clan, Alistair left the Dalish with their full support of the Wardens.

* * *

In Denerim, Arl Eamon hadn’t wasted time. The Landsmeet was just around the corner when Alistair arrived. He had only a week to spare for any quests or negotiations. Between dealing with slavers in the alienage, helping a blind templar, and dealing with Zevran’s past catching up with him, Alistair penned a message to Elissa, notifying her of the upcoming event. The amount of dirt he had on Loghain by that point had piled sky high.

And then, two days before the main showdown, Arl Eamon got off his rocker.

* * *

“Marry Queen Anora,” Arl Eamon said. In truth, he gave a long-winded spiel, going on and on about responsibility to the people and obligations borne by Alistair’s status, the end of Fereldan greatest bloodline… Eamon even had already held negotiations on Alistair’s behalf. He spoke at length, providing a seemingly endless list of arguments, but what it really boiled down to was his sudden desire to chain Alistair to the woman he had no wish to be in the same room with, let alone share the rest of his life.

First, Eamon sent him to the Chantry, against all his protestations signing Alistair for a fate he had never — could never — wanted, and now he needed Alistair again, this time as a figurehead. And what of _his_ choice? _No blighted way._

“You want me to marry Anora,” Alistair repeated flatly. “My half-brother’s widow. What’s next? Should I grow out my hair to look more like Cailan? Start wearing his smallclothes? And then… Oh, I know! I can change my name, too.”

Eamon pursed his lips. “That’s not what I meant, Alistair—”

He didn’t want to hear any more of it. “Funny how from where I’m standing it sounds _exactly_ like that.” Alistair shook his head. He felt a bitter taste in his mouth as the disappointment in his old guardian flooded him all over again.

The Arl tried another tack. “We need her vote—”

“Yes, yes, I know. You mentioned this once or twice before. I  thank you for your counsel, Arl Eamon, but the answer is no. Anora can have the throne for herself.” He straightened his back, posture proud and regal, face resolute. At that moment he looked more like young Maric than ever before. _And if I am ever to become king,_ Alistair thought, gritting his teeth as he strode out of the room, _I won’t be anyone’s puppet._

Until fairly recently, he couldn’t imagine willingly leading anything larger than a patrol party. He still didn’t want to the responsibility; however, now the possibility of ruling over a kingdom didn’t seem so ridiculously far-fetched.

* * *

The Landsmeet was… _intense_. Alistair’s impulsive speech about Ostagar didn’t have the desired effect on the voters. His jaw literally fell open when Queen Anora demanded his, Alistair’s, execution, stating her father’s claims of the Grey Warden’s treason to be true.

“Because of you, my husband is dead,” Anora said, pointing a sharp-nailed finger at Alistair, the crown resting on her meticulously braided hair gleamed in the torchlight.

Then Fergus Cousland stepped forward and told his account of the battle. Evidence of Loghain’s work with Arl Howe was brought to light, and Anora, who had either allowed it or closed her eyes on committed by her father atrocities, was declared unfit to rule.

The Landsmeet buzzed like an angry beehive, people shouting their opinions and not listening to each other. No one could agree on whom to give the throne. Alistair entertained the thought of supporting either Fergus or Elissa, but Arl Eamon, going against Alistair’s wishes, like always, outed him as king Maric’s bastard and thus the only true heir and possible candidate.

Silence blanketed the chamber; all eyes turned to Alistair. He kept his shoulders painfully straight and met them head-on. Let them look their fill. He wasn’t afraid of their judgment.

Banns Alfstanna and Sighard voiced their opinions next, expounding on Alistair’s virtues and successes. And soon, the Landsmeet went into chaos anew.

“I call for the vote,” Arl Eamon shouted, drawing the attention to himself. For the first time since waking up, he looked strong and able, a man in his elements. As the majority of voters declared him king, Alistair resented him with all his might.

Before he could protest, Loghain and his cronies attacked. Soon, the confrontation came down to a duel between them, Alistair and Loghain. Alistair won. Staring at his kneeling enemy, he found no mercy in his heart, and so his first royal decree was the traitor’s execution, effective immediately and done by his hand without delay.

* * *

There was no time for the official coronation, nor for the celebrations of his new status. Alistair was glad of it. As soon as the Landsmeet ended and the doors closed behind his back, a veritable cloud of advisers swarmed him like flies a fresh corpse. Suddenly, everyone wanted to be his trusted friend.

Alistair thanked his allies, shook hands with strangers, and nodded at those who were his enemies not an hour ago, all the while thinking that soon he’d snap, cut a path to the window and jump to his freedom, the three storeys flight be damned.

His _actual_ friends came to his rescue then. Sten, impassive as ever,  growled , “Parshaara,” glowering at the surrounding them nobles, and Leliana, a perfect diplomat, steered Alistair toward a side-room, explaining that the king had important Grey Warden business to attend. Zevran pushed the door shut before Arl Eamon could enter.

“Thanks.” Alistair leant against a small table with refreshments and rubbed his face with both hands. “Maker, that was trying.”

Wordlessly, Leliana pulled him into a hug, and as he breathed in the familiar lavender scent, his shoulders relaxed. “Thank you,” Alistair murmured, his nose pressed to the crown of her head.

“We will be outside, fending off the crowd,” Zevran said. “Give us a call if you need anything.”

The sound of footsteps, a barely audible creak, then it was quiet. After a long moment, Alistair opened his eyes to find the others gone.

“How are you really?” Leliana asked, leaning back and looking into his face with worried eyes.

Alistair sighed. “Not ready to be king.”

“Don’t worry. You will do great,” Leliana said with conviction and sealed their lips.

* * *

The news of the horde moving toward Redcliffe arrived with the evening correspondence, and Alistair sent missives to their allies to gather their troops. Deciding to have a reserve on standby, he left Denerim with only the members of his company and a small entourage of knights, ordering the main forces of king’s army — _Maker’s breath, his army_ — to await further commands. Eamon, who Alistair had refused to name his advisor, choosing, to the Arl’s shock, Elissa Cousland, loudly criticised him, but Alistair stood firm on the matter.

It must have been Andraste herself whispering in his ear, for when in a few days the Archdemon would pass Redcliffe, this decision would save countless lives.

* * *

The attack was a hoax. Alistair was halfway from Denerim and had just met with the Dalish when a raven carrying a letter from Orlesian Warden-Commander Janet Toulon swooped down and landed on his shield. It brought unsettling news: only a small part of the darkspawn forces had attacked and was easily deal with. The horde had gone underground, but rangers reported its general direction to be north-east… aiming straight at Denerim. Warden-Commander Janet wrote that by the time the letter reached him, she would have moved the troops after it.

Turning around, Alistair marched back, this time leading an army of elves.

* * *

Morrigan sought him at their last stop outside the city. She came to his tent, the tent Alistair was now sharing with Leliana, as the moons replaced the sun.

“Warden,” she said in a voice devoid of scorn, and Alistair knew her well enough to become instantly suspicious. “I trust that you know the consequences of felling the Archdemon.”

Alistair waited.

“I have a plan, you see. A way out.” Her yellow eyes were shadowed in the weak candlelight, but Alistair thought he saw hesitation. Morgan sauntered forward, her gait slow and sensual. “I know a sacrifice must be made, and with you the only Warden in our company —” she paused “— this sacrifice is going to be you.”

Alistair inclined his head to the side. Stopping before him, Morrigan put a careful hand on his breastplate, over his heart.

“We had our differences, but I do not wish you dead.” Morrigan looked at him, searching his face for a reaction. Alistair gave none. “I’ve come to tell you that ’tis doesn’t need to be. I have a way out for all Grey Wardens that there be no sacrifice.” She paused again,  perhaps uncertain, then continued, “A ritual performed on the eve of battle, in the dark of night.”

“Blood magic?” Alistair said at last. It had to be something so dreadful, so terrible that even his Order, which took blood mages and allowed the practice of their forbidden art, shied away from it. He didn’t need to hear more. “No, thank you. I’ll rather take my chances with the Archdemon than trust you to have my best interests at heart.”

“Allow me to—”

Alistair didn’t. “I would never agree to anything you propose, Morrigan.”

“Fine! Be a fool, I won’t stop you.” She pushed him with enough force for Alistair to take a step back. “You will regret this, but then it will be too late!” she snapped and stormed out of his tent, colliding with Leliana at the entrance.

“What was that about?” Leliana asked, coming inside and frowning.

Alistair shrugged. “Oh, you know. Just Morrigan being herself. Nothing to worry about.”

In the morning, the witch didn’t join them when they broke camp. The fire pit near the place she’d slept was cold and her belongings nowhere to be found. Morrigan had left.

* * *

By the time Alistair reached Denerim, his head was buzzing, countless pinpricks scratching his brain raw, coalescing into a relentless pounding at his temples. 

The darkspawn had swamped the outer edges of the city. They were still pouring out of the old, long-forgotten entrance into the Deep Roads, spilling like black oil onto the streets, taking the city into a ring, but their attacks were yet disorganised. Soldiers fought the foul creatures, but civilians were absent. Elissa, who Alistair had entrusted the army, had ordered the evacuation to the Palace.

Alistair and his company had to cut through several large groups of enemies just to reach the city gate, the Dalish elves supporting their progress with many quick arrows. In the brief respite followed by their arrival, they slipped into the marketplace along with the retreating soldiers.

“Alistair!” Riordan came out of an alley, thick rivulets of ichor decorating his leather armour, a bloody streak running across his cheek. “It’s good to see you, my friend,” he said, clasping Alistair’s forearm in greeting. Behind him, two other Wardens, a human archer and a dwarf wielding two long, curved blades,  stood in silence . “We came as soon as we could, but I fear we are too few.”

Despite the situation, Alistair allowed himself a smile; his shoulders relaxed. He couldn’t feel anyone else besides Riordan and his companions, but the massive darkspawn force crowded his senses with its presence. “I’m glad you are here at all! How far are the Order’s reinforcements?”

Riordan glanced down, at the grit and garbage the wind had blown to the pavement. His gaze rose to the gate: the darkspawn were finally amassing for assault. “We were able to follow the horde through the Deep Roads, keeping close but not drawing attention, but the rest had to travel the surface or risk being lost without a map.”  Riordan shook his head, a strand of hair, coming out of the confines of his braid, whipped him across the face. “It will be a day at the least.”

A frigid hand clenched his insides. _So much for the hope of a quick resolution._ Alistair nodded. “Then we will have to hold this long or deal with the Archdemon ourselves. Have it been spotted yet?”

“This morning the guards at Fort Drakon saw it on the horizon, coming from the south, but nothing since. It must keep to the clouds, for now, but I fear it won’t take long to descend onto the city. The darkspawn are pulling together as we speak. It must be close.”

Alistair was feeling it, too — the tightening loop of darkness around the city. The odds weren’t stacked in their favour.

Finding Elissa directing troops to positions, Alistair had time only for quick words. A loud crackle of splintering wood interrupted her report. The ogres had broken through the eastern gate.

* * *

They held the line. He’d lost people, but the tide of battle kept turning in their favour. Every time the darkspawn tried to enter the city proper, Alistair led the charge. They killed the ogres that had destroyed the gate and more besides and barricaded the gaps with whatever was close at hand. Carts and crates, parts of palisades and wine barrels, even doors, hastily pulled off hinges, went in use.

After the failure at the eastern gate, the darkspawn pulled back, only to barrage them with stone boulders from the western side. Another gate, another battle to protect it was successful. But Alistair knew they couldn’t keep at it forever. Sooner or later, they would be overwhelmed, and then…

It must have been the will of the Maker that sent the Archdemon flying over the city. Alistair felt it first — a black sun blazing in the centre of his awareness. The skeletal form of the tainted Old God darkened the sky, weaving through heavy, rolling Blight clouds. It swooped low, screeching in wordless fury and spitting purple flames. Another circuit took it near Fort Drakon, and Alistair saw their chance. It was time to take the fight to it.

Giving the last instructions to Elissa, Alistair called out to Riordan and said goodbyes to his friends. He would take Sten, Wynne, and Oghren with him, Alistair decided, but no one else. He went to Leliana last.

“My heart…” he started, drinking in her soft features. It could be the last time Alistair saw her. If so, he wanted this memory to be the last he’d take with him into eternity, if only for the brief moment before his soul would be obliterated out of existence.

“This is the end,” she said for him. “We’ve come so far…”

Alistair sighed. He wouldn’t want to be left behind in her place, either. “It’s for the best. You are the only one I trust to keep Dog safe.” He wasn’t joking, but Leliana smiled.

“I just wish to be there with you, but I respect your decision, and I thank you. Whatever happens” — her eyes shone, bright and keen — “know that I will always treasure the time spent with you. No darkspawn, no Archdemon will ever take it from me. You are my Warden, my love, and our saviour. Win this war and… come home.”

“If I survive this battle —” Alistair took her hand, wishing they would have pulled the gauntlets off but unwilling to break the moment to do it now “— will you be my queen?”

“I…” Her eyes went impossibly wide. Leliana blinked. “I… I never thought… Never dared to— You are king, and I’m an Orl—”

“My love” — Alistair brought one hand to the side of her neck, mindful of the hard metal — “I _am_ king, and all the rest can deal with my choices.” A wry smile twisted his lips. “They brought it on themselves.” He ran his thumb over the skin of her throat, wishing and unable to feel its softness. “I can imagine no one else by my side but you, Leliana. Will you marry me?”

“Yes. Yes, Alistair, I will! Just promise to come back.”

He nodded, closing his eyes for a second, swallowed.

“Alistair,” Riordan called. “It’s time.”

“I’ll do my best,” Alistair murmured and silenced Leliana’s  protests with a kiss.

* * *

The battle for Denerim, as it would be later named, lasted for a whole day. King Alistair led the charge of the united forces of men and elves, defending the besieged city from the relentless darkspawn attacks. Many a bard in times to come would sing a ballad in his honour.

With a small group of loyal companions and three other Grey Wardens, people said, King Alistair had stormed Fort Drakon and took out the Archdemon’s wings with a well-placed shot of a trebuchet. No one quite knew what had transpired at the roof of the Fort, but when the darkspawn had broken down defences and entered the city causing its defenders to pull back, and all seemed lost, a wide column of brightest, purest light blazed toward the sky, ripping the purple Blight clouds. Nobody could stand to look at it long, averting their gazes in fear of going blind. And when it ended, the darkspawn lost their focus, and everyone knew — the Archdemon had fallen.

_They seemed lost,_ soldiers would say, recounting the events of that battle in taverns. They turned to flee, the darkspawn, but ran into the Grey Wardens and the dwarven army coming to Denerim’s aid. A lot of evil creatures were slain that night, but people, too, had died.

King Alistair descended Fort Drakon, alive and well, with loyal companions by his side and only one Warden with them, and people hailed him the Saviour King, the Hero of Ferelden who took the mantle of his father and conquered the Blight. The future Queen greeted him then, falling into his arms on the Fort’s steps, and people cheered and praised the Maker.

Despite the losses, it was a glorious victory. The Chantry bells tolled five. It was a dawn of new day, the first day of a brighter future.

* * *

In the weeks that followed, the rebuilding and preparations for the coronation and the royal wedding kept Alistair busy. He woke with the sun and fell into bed well after the evening should be reasonably called night. In this chaos, his companions departed, staying only for the victory feast and disappearing one by one without delay soon after. Sten was the first, taking a ship across the Waking Sea. Then, Oghren departed to find his lost sweetheart at Lake Calenhad’s shore, somewhere close to the Circle. Next, it was Wynne’s turn, and Shale went with her, both planning to look into returning the cranky golem a dwarven body.

Natia and Zevran lasted the longest, staying for Alistair and Leliana’s wedding. For Alistair, the ceremony went in a haze; he had eyes only for Leliana, drunk on happiness and barely believing his luck. And maybe the wine Zevran had plied him with to steel his nerves had contributed to his inability to remember the details after.

“What are you going to do now?” Alistair asked Zevran at their last breakfast together.

“As I am able to do with myself as I wish, I find that I want to retain my freedom.” Zevran looked to the side, and Alistair followed his gaze.

His wife — _oh, Maker, wife!.._ — was whispering with Natia, both women giggling even as Leliana blushed scarlet. Alistair grinned and turned back to the elf.

“With Taliesin dead,” Zevran said, turning back as well, “it will take the Crows a while to figure out what happened, but by then I plan to be several steps ahead. They’ve hunted me long enough. It’s time I make it even, I think.”

Alistair nodded. “Knowing you and your skills, I fear you’ll run the Crows to the ground long before they notice anything amiss. And if you ever want to settle down, we’ll be glad to see you both.”

“Thank you, my friend. I will be sure to think about it, but don’t be surprised if I don’t take you up on your offer. Ferelden has grown on me, true. However, its charms have nothing on Antiva.” He stood and Natia followed suit.

“I hate goodbyes,” she said, pulling Alistair and Leliana into a group hug. “Have fun ruling the kingdom!” 

Alistair was sad to see them go, but as he watched them disappear, holding hands and with a pair of golden  earrings divided between them, his heart was light with the knowledge that they would keep each other safe. Standing at the palace’s steps with Leliana at his side, Alistair thought only of the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this story, please, leave a comment on the way out.


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